


Gravity

by Azertyrobaz



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:04:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azertyrobaz/pseuds/Azertyrobaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Clarity. Clara Oswald helps Malcolm Tucker clear his name. Jamie MacDonald and several other characters from TTOI make appearances along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've done my best to make the story understandable to people who haven't read the first part, Clarity, but I'd still encourage you to read it. :)
> 
> It's darker and angstier than Clarity, and I've chosen to rate it as 'Mature' just to be on the safe side given the subject matters. Once again, I hope you enjoy. I'll try to update regularly and there should be at least as many chapters as Clarity (i.e., ten) if not more.

It was her fourth day back after the holidays. "2006, here we go," thought Clara, wishing she could drown out the sound of the man speaking too close to her ear. He probably imagined that she was enjoying his _witty_ remarks. But she had stopped listening to him a while ago. Just as she had stopped listening to her Minister, who was addressing the room at large. This wasn't like her, she usually was quite attentive and studious when Bill Collins spoke. But then, he usually wasn't speaking somewhere where she remembered having enjoyed curry and lager with Malcolm Tucker. The memory distracted her. It had only happened about a fortnight before, after all. Why did the meeting have to take place in this particular room?

They were discussing a joint proposal with the people from the Department of Social Affairs. Well, Social Affairs _and_ Citizenship, as of a few days ago. Which meant that, unfortunately, they would have to work together on a number of key issues. Unfortunately, according to Clara at least, because the DoSAC Minister - who had come accompanied by two of his advisors and a press officer wearing a bright pink suit - looked like the kind of person who could leave his house in the morning not realising that he'd put his shoes on the wrong feet. He had paid less attention to what the Education Minister had been saying than Clara, which was actually saying a lot, since she had mostly been enjoying a trip down memory lane.

They should have met at the Sanctuary Buildings, she thought. Since DoSAC was moving to a new location sometime in the next month, it had been deemed easier to meet at Downing Street. She remembered agreeing with her Minister that it was a _great_ idea, already imagining that she might catch a glimpse of Malcolm at one point. But sitting in the very room where they had eaten dinner and so close to his actual office was almost akin to torture. Especially with that bespectacled tosser next to her whispering gibberish. His fake camaraderie was grating on her nerves. He might think that his own Minister was an idiot - and given what Mr. Abbott had felt compelled to say, she couldn't help but agree - but this didn't mean that it was what _she_ thought of hers. And she wouldn't mind if he stopped talking and let her pretend to listen to her boss's speech, thank you very much.

Fortunately, Mark, who was sitting on her other side, was taking notes. She liked Mark. He was a senior advisor for Mr. Collins she had recently come to spend more time with, and he showed far more professionalism than the like of M & Ems, for instance. But his note taking implied that he couldn't possibly save her from the drivel escaping the DoSAC employee. She was on the verge of not so politely ask him to _shut the fuck up_ when the meeting was finally adjourned. She'd have to inquire discreetly for a summary of what had been said from Mark. He wouldn't resent her for that since she had covered for him a few times in the last month, when he'd had to leave early because of his kids.

They were now all shaking hands and congratulating themselves for having spent close to two hours discussing something that would in all likelihood never leave this room. Joint proposals never really worked, let's be honest. If ministries barely functioned on their own, how could they possibly function better in twos? Clara stood up gratefully and smiled at the required people, wanting to escape the clingy DoSAC advisor. But he was following her. And kept on talking. They were now just outside the door. Clara had already told her colleagues she would go back to the Sanctuary Buildings on her own - thus allowing her to linger for a few minutes at Number 10 - and she needed to come up with a strategy to get rid of the pasty-faced geezer.

"Reeder, right?" she finally interrupted, and looked up at him. _Christ, he was tall_.

"Olly, yeah," he added, smiling, pathetically glad that she remembered his name.

"Listen..." she started, but it was no use, he was on a roll, and she had missed the beginning of his sentence.

"...and I thought that we could meet to exchange notes and, you know, wink, have coffee or something."

Olly Reeder was the kind of person who said 'wink' and winked at the same time. If this wasn't the ultimate proof that she needed to run for the hills, then her name wasn't...

"Clara Oswald!"

She faced the corridor and looked for the source of that voice, hoping her smile wasn't too obvious.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" quizzed the jovial Jamie MacDonald, his wide blue eyes travelling between the two of them.

"Actually..." started Reeder, blushing slightly and obviously thrown by the arrival of the loud Scot.

"Have you seen the big man?" asked Jamie, paying no attention to what Olly was saying.

"The big man?" couldn't help but stutter the DoSAC advisor, his eyes staring enviously at Clara, "You've met the PM, Clara?"

"I wasn't talking about _him_ , you dafty. And he's a wee thing, really. No, I was talking about Malcolm, of course!" announced Jamie, throwing his arm around Clara's shoulders conspiratorially.

"This lass here and Malcolm Tucker go way back. Isn't that right, Clara? Thick as thieves, I should say. Right?" he added, hugging her side against his and staring at Reeder whose slight blush had turned into a full blown red face. He might have never met the PM - neither had Clara, after all - but he had definitely come across Malcolm Tucker. This was made obvious by his reaction and terrified eyes.

"I was actually just on my way to see him, his office is right around the corner, you know," at this, the taller man walked backwards a few steps, trying to escape, "why don't we go together, Clara? I'm sure he'd _love_ to see you," he added unnecessarily, since Reeder had already made his hasty exit with a whispered 'bye' in her direction.

Clara disengaged herself from Jamie's hold when she saw the conference room emptying, and waited until the various ministers and advisors had gone before she fully turned towards the grinning man. She tried frowning but it was difficult to keep a straight face when all she could think about was Olly Reeder's crestfallen expression when he had heard the name 'Malcolm Tucker'.

"You are such an arsehole," she couldn't help but blurt out, which only made Jamie laugh harder, "but thank you, I didn't know how to get rid of him."

"Those DoSAC people, they're the worst," acknowledged Jamie, "they always fuck something up."

"And now that they have taken on Citizenship, we'll have to work together," Clara added, shuddering at the prospect of spending time with Oliver Reeder and his Minister on a regular basis.

"So, have you seen Malcolm yet?" asked Jamie, who had started walking again.

"No, not since I got back," she admitted. But she'd been pretty busy, after all, and up until that afternoon, she didn't have much time to stop and think about meeting him. Who was she kidding? Of course she had been thinking about Malcolm. The memory of the time they'd spent together before Christmas had been playing in her mind constantly, and helped her deal with the rest of the holidays.

"I'm on my way there now, let's go."

"All this wasn't for Reeder's benefit, then?" inquired Clara, following him to another set of Georgian doors at the end of the corridor.

"No no, as much as I love playing the knight in shining armour, I have a valid reason for being here, believe it or not," he grinned.

"Are you sure..." Clara started saying, fearing she might catch the PM's enforcer at a bad time, but Jamie had already led her inside the office. He hadn't even knocked, she noticed.

Clara had spent time in Malcolm Tucker's office before. She remembered quite clearly that snowy afternoon when all three of them had planned how to get rid of a nasty article and its author. In the end, Malcolm had been forced to erase the journalist from the UK Press Card registry. A risky move, given that it was of course illegal, but necessary.

The Director of Communications was sitting behind his desk. He was on the phone - for a change - but he'd raised his considerable eyebrows when she entered. Clara thought she perceived a small smile at the corner of his lips. He straightened up on his chair, and they heard him wrap up his call. His hair was getting a bit long, thought Clara. But she'd be lying if she said she didn't like this rumpled look on him. With his slightly greying brown curls and loose tie.

Jamie was the first to speak once Malcolm had put the phone back on its cradle.

"Got those précis you wanted, and the _Daily Mail_ called again about those invisible tax cuts their fucking medium has apparently foreseen."

"I don't know where they're getting this, nobody's been speaking about bloody tax cuts," sighed Malcolm, taking a quick look at the files Jamie had brought down.

"They're just hacked off because nothing's been happening since the New Year. But hey, brought you a present," he said, gesturing towards Clara who stood in the background even though Malcolm's eyes had scarcely left her figure since she'd come in, "I rescued her from the clutches of DoSAC's grown-up foetus boy."

"Olly Reeder?" asked Malcolm unnecessarily, considering that Jamie's description had been spot-on.

"I'm pretty sure he was flirting with her. The fucking nerve of that lad!" he added, apparently enjoying his boss's comically horrified expression and Clara's internal wince.

"He what?"

His voice was colder than Clara had expected. Surely he realised that Jamie was having him on. And that she'd never... But then, Malcolm Tucker could sometimes react unexpectedly.

"We were having a meeting with Mr. Abbott and some people from DoSAC about a joint proposal for Citizenship and Education," Jamie predictably snickered, "and that moron Reeder kept banging on about his _brilliant_ ideas. I'd never met him before - he's clingier than a labrador puppy with less than a fraction of its appeal."

She sat in front of him, even though he probably didn't have much time to spare her, but she wanted their eyes to meet over the desk. He seemed somewhat reassured by her serene expression and honest stare, and his shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

"I'll be on my way," said Jamie, already walking towards the door with a satisfied expression on his face, "looks like you kids need to plan a date or something."

Clara rolled her eyes, but said nothing. Malcolm merely thanked him and didn't comment on his cheeky words. They both knew he was probably right.

"How were your holidays?" asked Clara a few seconds later, fearing he would bring the subject of the DoSAC advisor back.

"Nice enough," he replied non-committally.

She let her eyes roam over the walls of his office and she smiled when they fell on a splash of colour behind his chair.

"I see you got some new drawings," she supplied.

He smiled slightly in turn and nodded, "Liz's wean insisted my office needed decorating. And I like the way it throws people."

"Wolf in sheep's clothing, right?" she replied, thinking that it was indeed a suitable description for him. Well, for people who didn't know him very well, at least. When he was at work, he was more of a wolf in shark's clothing, if such a thing could be achieved.

"How was Liverpool?" he inquired, and Clara realised that this small talk was there to hide his nervousness. Malcolm Tucker didn't do small talk. Not because he didn't know how to do it, but because he simply didn't have the time. But surprisingly, no phone had started ringing since she got here, and no one had knocked on the door with some urgent papers for him to sign.

She answered his question with a distinctive Gallic shrug. She'd rather not talk about it. Not now, at least. Not when they were so pressed for time and so utterly new at this. Whatever _this_ was.

"Alright, I guess. And I spent New Year's Eve back here with some friends." She'd gone to Martha's for a party, but wouldn't admit that she had more fun reacquainting herself with her dog - she'd missed him terribly - than meeting Martha and Mickey's friends.

Malcolm nodded, his fingers drumming on the desk and his steel-grey eyes piercing her. Clara knew perfectly well that their coming together was now a matter of _when_ rather than _if_. They'd been dancing on the edge for far too long, it seemed. Even though they'd met less than a month ago. Their behaviour at the moment was actually more akin to staring down a precipice than dancing. But she wouldn't mind jumping, as long as Malcolm jumped with her.

"Clara..." he started, but he was interrupted by his desk phone ringing. He angrily pressed a button without glancing at it and the noise stopped immediately. What he meant to tell her must have been important, then. Clara swallowed automatically. Having Malcolm Tucker's entire focus directed at herself was more than a little terrifying.

"That idiot Reeder," she blurted out, incapable of stopping herself, "he was just... He was just a prat, really, I would never entertain the thought of flirting with a guy like that."

Where was this coming from? Why had she felt the need to justify herself? She'd done nothing wrong, and this had nothing to do with what they were discussing - or not discussing, as it were. Still, she'd felt compelled to say something. The intensity of his gaze was unnerving. As though she couldn't hide anything from him.

"You're saying he's not your type, then?" Malcolm asked, raising his eyebrows, and Clara relaxed - his half-smirk told her he was enjoying himself and her predicament. _Jerk_.

"I've never gone for the public schoolboy look, no. Especially when it seems that they haven't left school, yet," she replied in a fake-serious tone.

"What about soon-to-be middle aged Scots who've never seen the inside of a University?" he added, and Clara could tell that under the veneer of humour, lied an important question.

"It depends," she told him.

"On what?" He looked slightly unsure, now.

"On whether the soon-to-be middle aged Scot would be ready to handle a twenty-eight year old bossy half-French girl."

"Oh, I don't think _handling_ her would be a problem, no," he countered easily, and his obvious pun made her grin.

"Good, then," she announced, standing up. She'd love nothing more than banter with Malcolm Tucker for the rest of the afternoon, but they both had workloads to get back to.

"Oh, and by the way," she added, as a parting word, "Oliver Reeder? Absolutely no chance. For one thing, he's far too tall. Highly unpractical." She enjoyed his somewhat dumbfounded expression and walked towards the door.

"Do you want to go to the River Café in Hammersmith on Friday?" he asked her quickly, her fingers on the handle and his phone ringing again in the background.

"It's posh as shit," he told her once she was facing him, "but the food's good."

"I'd like that," she replied, blushing slightly.

He nodded and graced her with one last small smile before picking up his phone.

"Tucker," she heard him say in his usual scolding tone, just as she was closing his office door.

Clara was replaying their conversation as she exited Downing Street. She felt lighter than she had in days, but couldn't help but worry in advance about Friday. They had shared a few meals together, though never in public. She hoped they'd manage to relax and have a nice time. So immersed was she in her inner world, that she didn't pay attention to the three uniformed officers she came across before leaving. If she had, they would have undoubtedly darkened her mood. But since she didn't, no sense of foreboding intruded her journey back to the Sanctuary Buildings. It was only that night, when Jamie called her, that the image resurfaced.

"Jamie, to what do I owe the pleasure?" It was close to midnight, but she had recognised his number on her home phone.

"Clara?" She sat up immediately, hearing in this single word that something was very wrong.

"What is it?" she asked him in a small voice, her heart hammering in her chest.

"Malcolm's been arrested," he told her simply, his tone devoid of its usual mirth.

"What do you mean?"

"The police came to his office after you left, and they arrested him."

"But..." she started, frowning.

"We got him out but it looks bad..." he interrupted her, and she could tell he now hesitated adding anything else.

"Tell me," she inquired resolutely, her free hand clenched.

"They found pictures on his computer. Someone must have tipped them off," he exhaled loudly.

"Pictures?" This didn't make any sense.

"Yes, you know, pictures that shouldn't have been there. Pictures of..." a beat, "little children."

"Oh my God!" she let out, her eyes no longer seeing her sitting room, her ears no longer listening to Jamie on the other end of the line.

"But..." She stopped. And for several nerve-wracking seconds, the only thing they both heard was their rapid breathing. _This was a mistake, surely. There was just no way... Right?_

Images kept assailing her mind. Malcolm the first time she saw him at the Treasury Party. Malcolm giving her a ride in his car. Malcolm walking her dog with her. Malcolm kissing her forehead on his doorstep and looking at her with something that felt very much like love. Had she been wrong about him all this time? Was he the kind of man who could manage to deceive everyone in his life?

But there were other images, ones that evoked feelings that were harder to describe. Malcolm sending an advisor who'd manhandled her on an unexpected trip to rural Wales. Malcolm looking lost at the idea of his abusive childhood being exposed in an article. Malcolm telling his sister on the phone that he'd be on time to read her children a story before they went to bed. Malcolm listening to her talking about her mum. Malcolm's proud smile at his nephew's drawings in his office this afternoon. _No._

"It's a set up," she whispered to Jamie, fearing now - perhaps justifiably - that someone might be listening.

The young man's relieved sigh on the other end told her that he had come to the same conclusion. And that he was glad not to be alone in this particularly rocky boat. Clara knew that he had two kids of his own: if he believed Malcolm innocent, then there was no room for any lingering doubt in her mind.

"That's what I think, too," he told her quietly.

"Hewitt," they then both said at the same time.

"I'm going to get him out of this, Clara," he pledged, "Sarah...my wife, she's a lawyer, and her brother's a QC. We'll prove it wasn't him. And I'll make sure he still has a fucking job waiting for him when it is all over, I'll make sure no one finds out."

He was mostly trying to convince himself, but Clara still found his words encouraging.

"Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. I want to help," she said earnestly, her mind set. _He's innocent_. _It's a set up. Everything will be okay._

"2006, here we go indeed" she thought once more, after Jamie had told her his plan.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm had lost track of days. He knew that he had spent quite a long time raging and drinking at first - Glenfiddich, he didn't even like Glenfiddich for Christ's sake - screaming at the four walls surrounding him uselessly. The empty bottles had looked accusingly at him in his subsequent feverish delirium. He wasn't quite sure if he'd got a cold from wandering outside in the rain or if it was merely the alcoholic haze. But he had felt like crap, and spent hours shivering under a scratchy blanket on the rickety sofa. He had debated whether he should open another bottle - his last one, perhaps he should hold on to it. He was well aware that he could be stuck there for a while, and he didn't relish the prospect of walking to the nearest shop, since he'd forgotten where it was.

The _fucking_ Isle of Wight. He'd probably laugh if the situation wasn't so tragic and if his head wasn't pounding so painfully. He should have eaten something, perhaps. But his shaking hadn't abated yet. The fever would break soon, then he'd have something. Soup, he thought. He had seen Jamie put some tins in the cupboard over the sink.

The cabin was small and dark. He could hear the wind howling outside. Or maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him - it wouldn't be the first time. He was certain he'd heard his big sister Kate speaking at one point during the night. The house belonged to someone in Sarah's family. An uncle, he thought. Mike, her QC brother, had suggested he stayed there for a while. He hated the fact that he was hiding like a bloody coward. Surely it would be easier to do something to help his own cause from London. Or at least from somewhere he knew and where he had friends, like Glasgow. But there was one fact he hated even more and which was preventing him from doing anything about his situation - he absolutely loathed the idea of possibly putting people he cared about in danger. It would be too risky to be seen with either of his sisters. And Jamie and his wife were already sticking their necks out for him by preparing his defence.

He'd never forgive himself if they came to any harm because of him. He hadn't even asked for their help, but they'd been there. Sarah had immediately taken on his case and her lawyering skills had gotten him out of the police station a few hours after his arrest. His burning fever had forced him to relive that first night: their insistence that he should stay put at their house for the time being, Jamie going to his place in the middle of the night to pack some stuff for him, Sarah's unshakeable belief that he was innocent. He hadn't needed to say it, they'd both automatically known that he was being set up. Malcolm didn't think he'd ever be able to express his gratitude to them - whatever the outcome turned out to be. There hadn't been a shred of unease or doubt in their eyes when their two toddlers had rushed unsteadily to the couch the next morning, wondering why 'Mac' was there. He had grabbed little Lucy out of reflex and sat her on his knees, and when he'd looked up at her parents, frozen in fear, he had read only trust and compassion on their faces. It was the only time since this whole ordeal had started when he had felt on the verge of tearing up.

Malcolm tried to focus his exhausted brain on tangible facts - being convinced of one's innocence wasn't enough. Especially when his fever had started putting dreadful images in his mind, and whispering horrible thoughts in his ear. Maybe he got what he deserved. Or worse, maybe he'd finally cracked and _had_ actually downloaded those pictures on his computer. In the last few days, it had sometimes been easier to believe in his guilt than in his innocence. If he was guilty, then he was there in this cabin in the middle of nowhere for a good reason, and his friends were just too blind to see the truth. But they would eventually see it when he'd be sent to gaol.

He pushed the thought back forcefully. _No. I didn't do it._ Malcolm felt so fucking tired and weak. If only he could sleep it off and wake up in his own bed. Or in his office. Or in his old bedroom in Glasgow, even, with the peeling flowery wallpaper and the leaky radiator. The smell of bacon wafting from the kitchen next door. The sound of his mother's singing in the background over a record, very quietly. Chet Baker. It must have been a good day, then - music meant his father wasn't there. His shaking stopped, and Malcolm let the memory soothe him into a dreamless sleep.

"Malcolm, wake up."

_Just five more minutes, mum._

"Come on, Malc."

_I don't feel so good. Perhaps I should stay home._

"You're worrying me, man. Wake up!"

_Okay, okay, I'm up. Wait..._

"There you go, rise and shine!"

Malcolm blinked. Everything hurt. His head, his eyes, his cramping legs and empty stomach. His fucking eyebrows, even.

"What?" he asked Jamie, not realising where he was, yet.

When he sat up on the small sofa, it all came back to him. He lowered his pounding head between his knees and tried to breathe in slowly. The walls were closing in on him and he felt like throwing up. When he opened his eyes once more, there was a glass of water in front of him. He held it unsteadily and drowned it in one gulp.

"Jesus, Malcolm. You need to better take care of yourself, you look like crap."

"Thanks," he couldn't help but answer tersely, although Jamie looked glad that he was grumbling over something. He sat on the coffee table in front of him, and tried to ignore the empty bottles of whisky.

"Are you okay?"

"Spectacular, can't you tell?" The water had definitely revived him, and despite his blinding headache, he realised that his thoughts were clearer than they had been in days. Also, the fever had apparently finally let go of him.

"Have you eaten anything since you arrived?"

"What day is it?"

"Saturday. You've been here for five days. Can't you remember?" Jamie looked worried.

"I ate," he lied.

"At least you've drunk something," he added, finally acknowledging the three empty bottles, "you must have been desperate, I know how much you dislike Glenfiddich."

"And you're a bastard for leaving me with it in the first place," he replied, but without malice.

Jamie smiled slightly and Malcolm took the time to look at him more closely. He'd known Jamie for years, and they'd dealt with some pretty intense situations before. But nervousness had never been so clearly etched on his colleague's face. He sighed, and suffered the weight of the situation and the responsibility he'd unwillingly placed on his friend's own shoulders once more.

"How are things?" he eventually asked, choosing to remain as vague as possible.

"It could be a lot worse," Jamie started, "very few people know that you've been arrested, and even less why."

"It's usually how it's done in cases like these, cops tend to be discreet. Good thing I haven't been framed for murder, they'd be interviewing everyone." But Malcolm would have actually felt a lot better it that were the case. He'd gladly admit to almost any other crime that the one he was falsely accused of.

"Sam can't stop crying, she asked me to bring you this," he told him, raising a heavy plastic bag filled with books. He felt a pang of sadness, thinking about his devoted PA. She was one of the very few who knew what was happening.

"People are speculating that you've been diagnosed with cancer, or something. And actually, it might work as your cover story once you get back, given how dreadful you look."

It was probably meant as a joke in order to diffuse the heavy atmosphere, but Malcolm was starting to wonder what he actually looked like. He raised his hands to his face, feeling the heavy stubble growing there, and slid his fingers through his hair. The wet and salty sea air made them curlier than usual, and reminded him of Glasgow once more. He'd kept them short ever since he'd arrived to work in London. The Yorkshire sheep look wasn't very scary or professional, according to him. Jamie obviously disagreed, although Malcolm had to admit that his Byronic profile often worked in his favour.

"It's a new style I'm working on," he deadpanned.

"Sarah managed to glean from the police that they haven't found anything on your home computer. According to her, this will help prove that you were set up. Lots of people can access your work computer. And it wouldn't make sense for you to have those files at the office but not at your place."

This piece of news relieved him. The idea of someone accessing his computer in his own home, even if it was done from a distance, greatly unnerved him. His house was his refuge from the craziness of Whitehall. He didn't want anyone intruding it.

"She probably isn't enjoying all that extra work."

"Are you kidding?" Jamie replied, his face taking on an intense expression Malcolm was more familiar with, "She's loving it. That's what she's good at. They've been giving her easy stuff at work ever since she came back from maternity leave, and she was starting to get a bit restless."

Well, at least someone was happy, he thought. But he knew that if anyone could prove his innocence, it would be Sarah. There was a reason why Jamie and her had such a well-functioning relationship: they were both highly focussed, thorough, and ruthless when necessary.

"I know you must be going slightly bonkers here, with the unreliable reception and the absence of modem or TV," Malcolm harrumphed at that, knowing that his alcohol consumption had been directly caused by this maddening factor, "so I've made you copies of everything I could get my hands on. Reports, analysis and so on. Sarah didn't want me to give them to you, but I know I'd want to have them if I were in your shoes."

"Even though I can't do anything about them from here," Malcolm answered darkly, but he still took the files gratefully.

"We talked about this..." started Jamie, sighing, "I know you want to help, big man, and I understand. But..."

"But it's safer for the investigation if I just disappear for a while and don't make waves, yes, I know, that's what you _all_ said."

"Not just safer for the investigation, Malc, safer for you. Safer for your future. You _do_ want your job back at the end of all this, right?" Jamie made sure.

"Of course," Malcolm replied, without taking the time to actually think about his answer, "but it's not really something I can fucking control, is it?"

"If you lay low and no one has any reason to doubt you, it might be. This will never go to trial, Malc. Or at least, not with you in the dock."

"Any proof that it's Hewitt, yet?"

"No, nothing, but it's got to be him, we'll keep on looking."

Malcolm sighed, knowing that it was no use to try and change Jamie's mind. He was stuck here for the time being. But he knew he'd have to try and find something to occupy his mind soon, lest he wanted to destroy all his remaining sluggish grey cells with the help of bland whisky. He stood up slowly from the sofa, and nearly fell back on his seat. His legs were like rubber. Jamie didn't comment, but he watched him closely making his way to the small kitchen.

"Tea?" he asked, realising that he hadn't asked his colleague if he wanted anything. He felt bad for not showing Jamie more kindness. He'd driven all the way from London, after all.

"I can't stay, I've got to catch the ferry in an hour," he told him a little sadly.

In the five days he'd been on this godforsaken island, Malcolm hadn't had the time to feel lonely. He was used to it, after all. He might meet and talk and shout at plenty of people during the day, but he always went home to an empty house. He didn't mind, he liked spending time on his own. At least, he thought he did.

"Did you get Clara's message?" asked Jamie in a small, unsure voice, as though he had been reading his thoughts.

Malcolm frowned. He was too exhausted to get properly angry, but he wouldn't mind trying anyway.

"Why the _fuck_ did you tell her?" he lashed out, turning back too quickly and feeling faint as a result.

He knew the message she'd left by heart. He'd listened to it a few times, masochistically enjoying the pain it procured him to hear her voice in such a dramatic setting: three o'clock in the morning, the cold rain pelting his face and the sound of the churning sea below him on the cliff outside. It was the only place he could get reception on his phone - not his precious BlackBerry of course, oh no, he'd had to leave it in London - his old-fashioned emergency phone which would now accurately announce doom every time it rang and played Chopin's _Funeral March_. If it _could_ ring, of course.

 _"Malcolm, it's Clara. Jamie told me what happened. He said he'd get you somewhere safe and that he had a plan to clear your name."_ She sighed at that point, a poignant sigh which always knocked something loose somewhere deep in his chest. _"I know you didn't do it, Malcolm. I know you're innocent. And I'll help Jamie in any way I can. But... If you want to talk or need me for anything, please don't hesitate to call. Stay strong. I'll still be there when it is all over."_

Her last sentence was the one which puzzled him the most. What did she actually mean? That she'd be there once he'd be found innocent, or that she'd be there even if he was found guilty? _When it is all over._ He'd felt like throwing his phone over the cliff, and him with it.

"She needed to know, Malcolm," said Jamie, bringing him back to the present and to the stuffy cabin, "she deserved to know. And she could help."

"How? I can't even call her, the reception is too crappy except for receiving messages, and the closest phone-box is two miles away."

His colleague shrugged, but seemed certain that he'd still made the right call in informing her. Malcolm let his thoughts drift and went back to sit on the sofa in front of Jamie. He was cold all of a sudden, and put the scratchy blanket over his shoulders. There was a tiny bedroom at the back of the house, with a small double-bed, but he hadn't felt like sleeping there. It would mean accepting the fact that he had to live in this place, and he wasn't ready for that yet.

"We were supposed to go to the River Café together on Friday," he told him in a matter-of-fact tone.

"That sounds nice," replied Jamie non-committally.

"Yesterday," he amended, and the realisation gave him pause. Inviting her seemed like a very distant memory, now. One he could never possibly get back to, no matter what Clara was saying in her message. It had been stupid of him to think that he could do something as normal as going on a date with a pretty girl. Pathetic, even.

"I'm sure she'd have enjoyed it," added the younger Scot, perceiving how dark his boss's mood was turning.

"Bloody liar, I'd have surely said something to fuck things up," Malcolm was smiling, but it was a cold smile.

"Maybe," agreed Jamie, "but she likes you. I really think you should call her, her home phone should be perfectly safe."

It was his turn to shrug, choosing not to offer any answer. Sarah and her brother had advised him not to use his work mobile, hence abandoning his BlackBerry behind. But they had deemed his emergency phone safe enough, since so few people knew about it. They couldn't know which lines were being monitored, although they were more worried about the person who had set him up rather than the police, who had probably only bugged his home phone. The culprit had managed to get into his computer at Downing Street, what else could he do?

Jamie left after putting the food he'd brought away. He didn't comment when he saw that Malcolm had eaten nothing but crisps, but still put another bottle of whisky on top of the fridge: Highland Park, bless him. Once he'd gone, he warmed up some soup and started pouring over the different files his colleague had left for him. Focusing on the reports made him feel like a human being again. It was easier than he'd anticipated to detach himself from the case, and to pretend that the pages he was reading didn't concern him but rather a random government employee. He wrote down some notes, but tired quickly. Malcolm knew he needed some restorative sleep, one that wouldn't be plagued by feverish visions. But after a long, well-deserved shower, he made his way to the small sofa. Even though he couldn't lie down properly on it, it still held more appeal than the bed.

He slept straight through the next morning and ventured outside with a cup of instant coffee. The rain had abated, but the wind was still strong and the January air cold. He guessed that the house was a nice place, during the Summer. On the way there, Jamie had told him he'd enjoyed the time he'd spent with Sarah in the cabin. But in the Winter, the white-washed walls, thatched roof and unforgiving flagstones inside looked bleak under the grey sky. Malcolm felt the briny atmosphere seep deep inside his very bones, and he shivered. Although his muscles were still cramping slightly, he managed to get a fire going during the day. He made himself a light lunch, and was on the verge of looking through the books Sam had given him when there was a knock on the door.

Jamie couldn't be back already, and he had a key. When the knocking came on again, his curiosity outweighed his worry, and he shuffled to the door.

Clara stood on the other side. Her border collie at her feet, and her body almost disappearing inside her dripping winter coat. Something heavy lodged in his throat and he froze. His fever must be back, he was hallucinating. What would Clara Oswald be doing there, looking so beautiful it made his eyes hurt?

"Malcolm?"

She was good at masking her surprise at his appearance, but not _that_ good. He knew that he looked more than a little rumpled, with bags under his eyes the size of a small country.

 "What... what are you doing here?" he asked the living, breathing mirage.

"Jamie told me where you were. Can I come in?"

The rain had started again, he noticed. But it still took him a few seconds to open the door wider and let her walk inside, her boots making squishy sounds on the thin carpet. She put the small holdall he hadn't noticed she was carrying on the floor, and promptly went back outside, without a word. Her dog was sniffing the unknown territory, lingering on the rug in front of the fireplace and under the kitchen chairs. Malcolm barely had time to wonder what was happening before Clara reappeared with a yellow bag of Pedigree dog food almost as big as her. He tried helping her carrying it to the kitchen, but she wouldn't let him, and managed on her own. She made one last trip to her parked red Saxo, and came back with a blue dog leash. Clara held it tightly in her hands, and followed her black and white dog's movements in the small cabin. Eventually, she breathed in deeply, and turned towards him.

"I'm leaving the Doctor with you," she told him matter-of-factly, her eyes set.

"What?" He was clearly still dreaming, her words and behaviour didn't make sense.

"I'm entrusting my dog to your care. I'm hardly ever home these days, and you have a huge garden and the beach a few yards away. He'll be better here with you." She had a hard time focusing on him, and kept staring at the floor, or at the leash she was still holding.

"I don't know how to take care of a bloody dog!" he complained stubbornly, not knowing what reaction was expected of him. And anger always came easily, especially lately.

"It's not that difficult," she replied, frowning, and he could tell she was on the verge of losing it - be it her patience or her nerves.

"Feed him once a day, make sure he always has water and walk him as often as you can. Everything he needs is in the holdall. The food should last a while, and I left you a list." At this, she took out a piece of paper from a pocket inside her coat, and put it on the coffee table.

"But... I don't understand, why are you doing this?"

She studied his face and stared into his eyes - the first time she actually looked at him from up close since her arrival. She forced herself to smile.

"I think you need him more than me at the moment," she told him sadly, "I know you'll manage."

She put the blue leash delicately on the table next to her note, her movements slow and deliberate. It was obvious she had a very hard time separating herself from the object and what it represented. She patted her whining dog, who surprisingly seemed to understand what was happening. He didn't try to follow Clara as she walked back towards the door, but it was visibly a struggle for him.

"Wait..." started Malcolm, trying to stop her from leaving so soon.

"I can't miss my ferry, I'm sorry" she said, refusing to look at him or her dog again.

"Clara," he tried again, grabbing her elbow just as she was reaching the doorstep.

She turned back towards him, her eyes red. He dropped his hand quickly and attempted to think of something to say, the rain already dampening his collar.

"You told me once that this dog was the most precious thing you had, I can't let you do that."

Her smile, though lopsided, was the most genuine he'd seen since she got here. She seemed glad he remembered her very words in the car that day.

"He is, but I want you to have him with you. I think he'll help you." She then took a few small steps, and came to stand right in front of him.

"Bye, Malcolm," she said, raising her hand to stroke his stubbly cheek, " _please_ take care of yourself."

Then she was gone.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Clara wasn't sure whether it had been Malcolm or the Doctor she'd had a harder time leaving. Her eyes had remained resolutely dry up until she reached the ferry. She had thought that she would have the opportunity to actually go on the deck this time, since she no longer had her dog in the car. But now that she had parked, she couldn't make herself move from the enclosed space. The unforgiving noise of the huge engine felt surprisingly good to her ears, and prevented her from thinking too much. The past week kept replaying in her head nonetheless - the doubts, the fear, the sadness. And her sudden realisation the previous night that she _had_ to go, _had_ to see him for herself. Jamie had called her after his trip to the isle of Wight on Saturday, and he hadn't been able to mask his unease. He'd told her not to worry of course, and almost refused to give her his friend's exact location. Clearly, the man didn't know yet how stubborn she could be - the very fact that he didn't want her to go made her want to reach the remote cabin even more.

She'd taken her dog with her almost on a whim. Still, it had only taken one glance of him to realise that he badly needed something to occupy his mind. Jamie had warned her that he was ill, but Clara hadn't thought that he could change so drastically in the span of six days. He had looked positively dreadful. Gaunt and shabby, with heavy stubble on his cheeks and unkept hair. Although those were only external signs, after all - she had expected him to look poorly. What she hadn't expected to see was the defeat in his eyes. The utter conviction that nothing could be done. That he was crushed and would stay crushed. _This_ had been the most painful thing to witness. Not his lined face or his shaking hands or his malnourished state.

She congratulated herself once more for having managed to hold onto her tears until now. It had been a close call, but it would have achieved absolutely nothing to cry in front of him. He didn't need that from her. She hoped she could have given him more than the comfort she was sure her dog would bring, but this would have to do for now. Clara was even more set on helping Jamie clear his name - seeing him had had this positive outcome, at least. But how would she manage to go back to her day to day life come tomorrow morning? How would she find the strength to go work for a government that had possibly something to do with the situation Malcolm found himself in? This was Jamie's latest theory, and Clara wasn't sure she adhered to it. That being said, she hadn't been working for the government for as long as the two Scots. And she was smart enough to realise that the feared Director of Communications had probably amassed quite a lot of enemies over the years. Still, this didn't ring true to her, and she kept coming back to Hewitt and his deletion from the UK Press Card registry. She couldn't help but feel guilty if that turned out to be the reason Malcolm had been arrested, since she'd been present when he had figuratively pulled the trigger. Perhaps she should have stopped him. Perhaps she should have helped him find a better way to get rid of the damaging article.

There was no point regretting what had happened, now. It was done. And she still faced coming home to an empty house. She hadn't lied when she'd told Malcolm that she barely saw her dog, these days. Her working schedule was hectic, with the new curriculum about to be finally released the following month. But at least the Doctor was there every night when she arrived and every morning when she left. He had been there during the worst period of her life, and Clara felt that they had thus somehow grown up together - or at least matured, in her case. Maybe he could therefore be there for Malcolm during his own calvary.

"How did it go?" asked Jamie that evening when she rang him. They never discussed Malcolm when they bumped into each other at work for fear of eavesdroppers, but they'd started calling each other almost every night. Most times they would voice some new theories and keep each other abreast of any new development in the case, but sometimes they would just talk to remind themselves that they hadn't gotten mad, and that they were taking all these precautions for a very good reason.

"How was he?" he pressed, since Clara couldn't find the right words to answer him.

"He was... not well," she finally said after a beat.

"I warned you."

"I know. But I don't mean just physically. I mean..."

"I know," he interrupted her, sighing, "we'll get him back, you'll see."

"Yeah," she replied, not so certain of that at the moment.

"That's how he is, he doesn't like to stay idle. He's just suffering from cabin fever, so to speak." She heard Jamie laugh slightly at his own joke, but Clara could tell his heart wasn't in it. Nonetheless, she admired him for his attempt to make light of the situation in order to make her feel better.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have gone there," he added after a while.

"I wanted to," she pointed out, "and I don't regret going, I know just how important it is to get him out, now."

"He'll be fucking mad at me for letting you know where he was."

"What makes you say that? He seemed glad enough to see me," she said, realising that she wasn't exactly being truthful.

"He likes you, Clara," Jamie told her very seriously, as though his revelation had potentially dreadful consequences.

"Well, I like him too," she replied easily, all the while knowing how important her words were, and how much Jamie was putting on the line by saying that to her.

"I mean he _really_ likes you," he added, obviously thinking she was being flippant, "and he'll hate himself for showing any sign of weakness to you."

Perhaps Clara should take more time to appreciate Jamie's words. But she didn't have that luxury, not at the moment, and if she was completely honest with herself, she understood very well what he actually meant: _don't fuck him up_. She was amazed once more at the depth of the two colleagues' friendship. It ran surprisingly deep, and Jamie was more perceptive than she had thought when she had first met him.

"I understand what you mean, Jamie, really. And I'm not planning on making things more difficult for him, quite the contrary. I owe him that, and I want him to come back."

"Good."

"And he owes me dinner at a fancy place, as well," she couldn't help but utter, feeling that their conversation needed some levity.

"Yeah, he said something along those lines, you should hold him to that." Clara was glad to hear that Jamie sounded more like himself. Perhaps they'd both manage to sleep easier, that night.

As it was often the case this past week, Clara felt better after her talk with Jamie. It had quickly evolved from a depressing sharing of news into a comforting reassurance. A reassurance that the case was moving in a positive direction, and that Malcolm would soon be able to come home and reclaim his coveted spot at the government. Clara tried not to focus on the fact that they'd barely made headways, and that Malcolm Tucker was still the prime suspect according to the police. It could be a matter of days until they had enough proof to charge him and arrest him again, with the firm intention of locking him up for a very long time.

Clara laid down on her mattress, and breathed in deeply. She had to trust Sarah and her brother. This was _their_ job to deal with the police and defend Malcolm in court if the case ever came to trial. Jamie's job was to come up with new theories and likely suspects. So what was her job? Force him to become her dog sitter in the hope that it would prevent him from sinking into despair? Surely, she could do more than that.

The nightmare that woke her up right before dawn cemented that resolution in her. She _had_ to do something. Clara was on the verge of calling Malcolm before she remembered that she couldn't reach him. Leaving him a message would be pointless. Why did he have to be so far away? She was pretty sure that the vivid images and the nausea they generated would stay with her all day long, and she almost decided to call in sick. Memories of her own past had mixed with visions of Malcolm. Lost, in pain, alone.

Her heart still hammering in her chest, she closed her eyes, and tried to imagine Malcolm and her dog going about their morning peacefully in the small, far away cabin. _Everything is going to be fine_.

 

 _Everything is going to be fine_ , Malcolm kept repeating to himself, like a mantra. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't really working. He had thought that his fever had broken, yet he was still plagued by strange visions. And he now attributed the odd sounds his ears picked up to Clara's dog, although there again he knew he was only trying to make himself feel better. Border-collies didn't usually speak with human voices, after all. Voices that clearly sounded like his mother and sisters. He dreaded the moment when he would start hearing his father, but fortunately it hadn't come, yet.

_Don't worry, Malc, it won't come. But I'm still there, though._

Shut up, Kate.

_What are we going to do with you?_

Leave me alone.

_I'll come and visit you in gaol, don't worry. But do you think Liz will come? With her kids? Do you think she'll take that risk? Just in case?_

Just in case what? She knows I'm innocent.

_Does she? Really?_

Malcolm was still sensible enough to realise that the voices were in his head, and that he had simply externalised his guilt and anger through them. He wasn't actually going mad. As far as cover stories went, though, this could perhaps work in his favour in the long run. _Where was Malcolm Tucker all this time? Don't you know? He was certified and sent to an asylum. Well, it's no wonder really. It was bound to happen someday._ He smiled mirthlessly at that, and tried to go back to sleep. He fixed his eyes on the black and white dog, who hadn't moved from his spot across from him by the fireplace, and tried to focus his thoughts on something else. Something like Clara and her kindness. A kindness he truly did not deserve. He wasn't quite sure yet why she had wanted him to have her dog, but he felt vulnerable enough at the moment to accept her gift without over-thinking its meaning. Perhaps the answer would come to him in his sleep.

When he woke up again there was a new sound. A sound that wasn't caused by the pounding in his ears or his erratic breathing. At first, Malcolm thought it came from outside, since it reminded him of the howling wind. But when he opened his eyes fully, he realised that the noise came from much closer, right next to him in fact. He sat up in fright, then felt something warm and wet against his hand. And when the whining started again, he finally remembered that he was no longer alone in this depressing place.

"Hey, dog, what's wrong?" Malcolm barely remembered his dream, but it must have been a pretty bad one if he was still out of breath.

The border-collie kept making mournful sounds that were almost reminiscent of human cries. Malcolm tried to pet him behind his ears like he had seen Clara do to make him stop, but it still took him a long time. Once the Doctor was calm, he sighed deeply and settled next to the couch, apparently intent on staying right next to him. And Malcolm realised that in the time that it had taken him to reassure the dog that he was okay, he had forgotten everything about his nightmare or what had been in it. He laid back down and kept one of his hands against the Doctor's warm fur. He was lulled back to sleep by the reassuring heartbeat he could feel under his fingers.

It was raining come morning. For a change. But even if the dog hadn't been there and looking in desperate need of a walk, Malcolm would have still gone outside. He wanted to get a better feel of his surroundings and call Jamie. He hadn't made any leap the previous couple of days reading the files his colleague had brought, but he didn't think he could just simply wait until everything resolved itself either. He needed to talk to him and ask him if there had been any new development with the inquiry. But when he finally reached the spot atop the cliff where his phone stopped showing its maddening message that there was 'NO SIGNAL', the Doctor at his heels, he realised once more how powerless he was. He couldn't call him. They had agreed Jamie would only leave him messages if there was news. Just to be on the safe side in case the lines were monitored. But after ten minutes there was still no beep from his phone. No messages, no news.

_What did you expect, son? To be back at your desk in a week's time as though nothing had happened? I raised you better than that._

Piss off.

Monday morning, eight o'clock. Malcolm would be getting ready for his morning briefing. Surprisingly, instead of worrying over the mountain of work waiting for him when he got back - _if_ he got back - he looked down at the dog sitting patiently at his feet.

"Why don't we hit the beach, dog? The water must be fucking lovely, this time of year."

He remembered fondly one of the things Clara had written in the note she had left him: "he understands English". It had taken him a while to realise that the young Education advisor wasn't cracked, but merely that she had probably gotten her dog in France, and therefore taught him to respond to orders in French. The Doctor seemed well behaved though, and Malcolm hadn't had the opportunity to give him actual orders yet. Nevertheless, he found himself speaking more and more to the dog as time went on. He often had the peculiar impression that he could understand him. Somehow. Although since he had recently started hearing voices, he conceded that he might not be entirely dependable on the subject.

Given that it was a rainy January morning, the beach was deserted. Malcolm had forgotten to take the leash with him, but this didn't seem to bother the dog, who made the most of the apparently never-ending stretch of yellow sand to rush around. He should have taken that frisbee he'd seen in Clara's holdall, perhaps. The Doctor would have liked that. Although the biting wind might have worked against them. It was definitely colder down there than on top of the cliff, and the sound of the sea was drowning everything else, but unfortunately not the thoughts running in Malcolm's head.

He kept circling back to the same question: who had put those pictures in his computer? According to Jamie's files, the police had discarded the possibility that they had been uploaded remotely. And Sarah's technical expert shared that point of view. Which meant that someone had accessed his computer in his office. It wasn't impossible, since it wasn't exactly guarded, but it couldn't have been Hewitt. Each and every person who came to Downing Street had to log in at the entrance with security. It was absolutely compulsory since 7/7, and even Malcolm knew that it was damn near impossible to slip through. Hewitt hadn't been in the logs. Which meant that it had never been him in the first place or that he had an accomplice. Surprisingly, he wished that it was the former. Because if Hewitt had an accomplice in Downing Street, it could be anyone. Possibly someone he trusted.

Standing on the freezing beach with a yapping dog running circles around him, Malcolm acknowledged for the first time that Jamie and Sarah had been right to send him as far away from London as possible. If he was slightly going out of his mind here, he would have surely utterly lost it over there. Because of his job, Malcolm suffered from regular bouts of paranoia. Fortunately, he knew how to control them and not let them overwhelm him. But living in the constant fear that someone was looking over his shoulder - be it the cops or the culprits - would have been an actual nightmare. Malcolm would have probably given up on his sanity a few days in, and willingly surrendered himself to the police, innocent as he was. Either that, or he'd have gone on a rampage. Which would have given the authorities a very good reason to arrest him, at least.

 _Good idea, Malc. Why don't you do that? Jamie and Sarah would be finally rid of you and your hopeless case. They have better things to do. Think of their children. Think of_ my _children, big brother._

He sat down heavily on the wet sand, and observed Clara's dog playing in the small waves crashing near the shore. He didn't seem bothered by the obviously cold water. Or the dark thoughts running in the human's mind. Malcolm had the sudden urge to go swimming. He missed the tranquility it brought him. The sea wasn't raging wildly after all, and surely if he only stayed for a few minutes he wouldn't catch his death. A hot shower in the cabin was close by. And maybe he should play the part of the mad man all the way through. _Fuck it_ , Malcolm thought, no one was there to stop him. He took off everything but his boxers, and resolutely walked in the water.

It was so cold he couldn't move once it had reached his thighs, and he thought his heart stopped, frozen, at one point. But Malcolm was of a very stubborn nature - if he wanted to swim, he would. The temperature wouldn't stop him. He forced himself to splash some water on his face, then plunged. It seemed like forever until he reached the surface again, although it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. Still, in that time span, Malcolm felt as though he'd been given all the answers to all the questions he could possibly ask himself now or in the future. Perhaps that was it, then. Clarity. Bliss. Catharsis. Or whatever people chose to call it. No matter what it was though, it still slipped through his fingers at an unbearable speed, to be replaced by cold. Unbelievable cold. Overwhelming cold. He quickly lost all feeling in his extremities, and tried to swim unsuccessfully for a while. Out of breath, he gave up, and walked back to the shore, his head pounding and his ears burning.

"Okay," he acknowledged to the dog, who seemed to be looking at him a bit strangely, "perhaps it wasn't my best idea to date."

His teeth shattering wildly and his clothes clutched to his chest, Malcolm made his way back up the cliff to the cabin. The swift pain in his head didn't leave him, not even after a boiling shower and some warm tea, but he was at peace. The voices had finally left him.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Oliver Reeder was a prat. And Clara had never felt like strangling another human being quite so badly. Make that torturing, slowly and viciously - the man didn't deserve the sweet relief of death. The day had started badly enough with her late arrival. She hadn't been sleeping properly for days, and with the weekend finally looming, she had pressed the 'snooze' button on her alarm clock one time too many. Having no time to eat breakfast, she had to rely on the office coffee machine, which stubbornly decided not to cooperate - that is, not before it promptly exploded all over her white shirt. On top of all that, Emily primly announced right before lunch that 'Clara's boyfriend' was there. Ollie Reeder had spent so much time these past few days at the Sanctuary Buildings - most often than not, following Clara around - that everyone seemed to imply that he was her _fellow_ or whatever other dreadful word they might come up with. Clara was too hungry and slow to react by that point to refuse his lunch invitation. But she drew the line when he insisted they went somewhere nice. Sandwiches in the conference room was her limit.

Looking at him now, making awfully nauseating eyes at her, she regretted her decision to say yes. Or her decision to let him be in the same room as her. Or the same building. Or city. A whole continent separating them might not be enough, judging by her ever-growing wish to either punch him or throw herself out of the window.

"Windows you can't even open, unfortunately," she said out loud.

"Sorry?" asked the DoSAC advisor, utterly lost.

"Nothing."

Clara tended to forget when and how to filter her thoughts when she was tired. And thus often spoke up without meaning to. She focused on her salmon sandwich once again, and pretended to listen to Reeder's assessment of the coming Special Needs bill and how _thrilled_ he was to work _hand in hand_ with Education on this. What a load of bollocks, she thought. That bill was a fiasco waiting to happen, and she was pretty sure Select Committees would be involved before it got anywhere.

Clara feared she had once again said that last part out loud. Reeder looked like he'd choked on one of his cucumber slices. But she quickly realised that this wasn't the case, and that his reaction was caused by the arrival of a wild Jock. Clara was apparently destined to be rescued from the overbearing familiarity of the bespectacled tosser by one James MacDonald. The smile quickly died on her lips when she realised that this time, she might not actually relish what he was about to say.

"Jamie?" The man looked like he hadn't slept in days, and yet his blue eyes were almost comically huge. But she clearly read distress rather than youthful wonder in them.

"I need to speak to you. Alone." His tone clipped, he barely paid attention to Reeder who, copying Clara, had stood up when Jamie entered the room. Except that she had done so in anguished expectation rather than fearful deference.

"The emergency staircase," she replied, equally short on words.

She left the room without sparing a look backwards, although she was vey much aware that any tedious conversation with Reeder would have been better for her nerves at the moment than listening to what Jamie had come to tell her.

"The police," he started as soon as they were out of earshot, "they told Sarah they have enough to charge him."

Clara leaned against the rail, all felling suddenly leaving her lower body. Her heart, on the other hand, was beating erratically.

"What does that mean?" she asked, dreading the answer she already knew was coming.

"They'll probably arrest him soon," he replied, giving voice to her fears.

"When exactly? Did they say?"

"No, and Sarah and Michael haven't been able to reach the CPS solicitor yet. But it could be on Monday or as early as tonight." Jamie shuffled his feet, and looked anywhere but at her.

"I take it they know where he is, then," she supplied in a soft voice, oxygen coming in short supply.

"Yes, it was agreed that they would let him leave London as long as he stayed within two hours of the city and reachable at all times. We stretched those two conditions a wee bit, but it won't stop them for long."

"So they'll go all the way to Brightstone to arrest him?" Clara couldn't imagine Malcolm being arrested in such quaint settings. It didn't fit, somehow.

"Sarah reckons they might charge him in Newport rather than London, but I doubt it. So yeah, the Met will go themselves."

"That doesn't give us a lot of time," she thought out loud, "but did you... Did you reach him? Did you tell him already?" Jamie sighed deeply, then nodded.

"I left him a message as soon as I heard to go to the phone-box in the village at noon so that I could talk to him properly. He picked up on the first ring. I wished I could have told him face to face, but..."

"It was better than leaving a message," she interrupted him, seeing how guilty he already felt.

"He took it better than I thought. I'm afraid the poor sod was probably expecting it," he added brokenly.

Clara's throat closed up, aware that it was the worst news of all. Malcolm had given up already.

"Or, you know, they could be bluffing. Michael says cops often do that to put pressure on the suspects. Make them crack and say or do something incriminating," he eventually uttered, intent on reassuring Clara now, just like she had tried to reassure him earlier.

But they both knew that luck hadn't been on their side since this whole thing started. And it wasn't about to change now.

"Are you going, then?" she asked, and Clara immediately regretted her question when she saw his crestfallen expression.

"I... I can't. It's a bloody nightmare at the Department with Malcolm gone. I'm barely holding everything together as it is, and... I don't want him to come back to a fucking mess, you know?"

She saw how close to the end of his tether Jamie actually was, and felt guilty for not having commiserated more over his own fate. Clara hadn't taken the time to wonder what it must be like in Downing Street without Malcolm dealing with the never ending list of daily crises. And despite all that, Jamie still believed that his boss would come back. Needed to believe it, probably. Lest he wanted to part with his sanity once and for all.

"That baldy nonce Nicholson is trying to take his place. I won't let that happen. No fucking way. And if the opposition ever gets wind of his absence, this is all going to turn into an even more massive shit storm."

Jamie was still trying to justify his reasons for not being able to go to Malcolm, and Clara knew she should stop him and tell him she understood, but she couldn't think of anything to say to make him feel better. Offering him platitudes wouldn't work, and he was good at self-castigating himself without her help - because, yes, she was definitely cross with him for not going. Although this realisation gave her pause. Was he scared of going, perhaps? Scared of seeing his mentor in such a bad light? Scared of his reaction after having failed him?

"Sarah will just be a phone call's away if he's arrested, of course. She'll go to Newport if necessary, she's still his lawyer," he carried on, perhaps seeing the half-hidden reproach in Clara's eyes.

"I'll go," she then said, interrupting his speech, "I'll go today," she added, her mind made up.

"What? Are you sure? Clara..."

"I can take the afternoon off. I'm certainly allowed that after all I've done for this bloody department since I arrived." Her tone was resolute - there was no room for doubt in her words.

"I'm not sure he'll take it well, you know how fucking furious he can be when he's on the back-foot, and..."

"Jamie," she stopped him, her eyes flashing, "we are _not_ leaving him alone at a time like this, not knowing when or if the police might turn up to arrest him again. I don't care how _fucking furious_ he'll be, I just know that I have to go. I have to do something, and this is it."

He stared at her, trying to decipher her reasons for insisting on doing this. What he saw threw him at first, but then comforted him more than anything she could have possibly said to set his mind at ease on the subject. Jamie almost felt like smiling, and truly believed at that moment that things could turn out alright. More than alright. Energised by her utter composure, he stood a little straighter, the weight of the past two weeks a little lighter, and nodded.

Clara went home and packed a bag. She had bumped into the minister as she was exiting her office, intent on quickly reaching HR to request the afternoon off - she was tempted to leave without informing them, but professional conscience eventually kicked in - and he had looked worryingly at her. When she explained that she was leaving for the day, citing family issues, he took her hand in his and she was startled to see actual concern in his eyes. _Take all the time you need, Clara. And be safe._ She had swallowed, hard, feeling tears at the corners of her eyes, and eventually nodded, painfully glad for his comforting words.

Driving to Portsmouth took longer than the last time, and she had to stop a couple of times to let her engine cool off. Her old car was complaining about her rough treatment these past few weeks, and Clara eventually slowed down when she realised that having a break down now would be disastrous. It was raining on the way to Fishbourne and the horizon was darkening already, but she still went on the deck, wishing for the ferry to go faster. She only started thinking about what she would say to Malcolm as she reached Newport. Trying not to notice the police station, she racked her brain for ideas. He'd probably be on edge, expecting a knock on the door at any moment. She didn't imagine for a second that he might have done a runner. This just wasn't who Malcolm Tucker was. Still, anticipating his reaction at seeing her was close to impossible.

 _I'll know what to do when I get there_ , she kept repeating to herself uselessly.

She parked her red car further from the cabin than the last time, in the hope that she wouldn't spook him. When he opened the door, swiftly, she found out that nothing could have prepared her for the terror she read in his eyes. Her heart stopped, and his face slowly took on a different expression, just as terrible, when he saw that it was her and not the police. A dawning realisation.

"Oh, you're here to get your dog back, then." His voice was raw and utterly alien to her. Small, and almost childlike. Guarded. Ashamed. His head apparently too heavy for his neck and shoulders, bowed down under the weight of the world. The weight of his despair.

Clara's first urge was to slap him, hard. To rekindle the fire in his eyes and hopefully anger him in the process. Anger would be good. Anger would be something she could work with. Instead, Clara acted on her second impulse and all but crushed his body to hers. He didn't have time to react before she looped her arms securely around him and pulled at his hair with more force than she had expected. Her mouth came crashing against his, her teeth probably knocking a few of his loose in the process of frenziedly kissing him. Kissing him as though it were the first and last kiss they'd ever have - and perhaps it was. Kissing him like there were no tomorrow - and perhaps there wasn't. She felt his intake of breath against her lips, a beat, a sigh, and then he responded.

Her hands moved from his hair to his face, barely taking note that the heavy stubble of last week had been replaced by an almost fully-fledged beard. She felt the muscles of his jaw working furiously, his tongue against the roof of her mouth, now. When she tired of standing on her tip toes, he boldly pressed her tighter against him, his fingers already making their way past the waistband of her trousers. His intent was clear, but then so was hers. His kisses were bruising and her pleasure was flaring alarmingly fast. There was no way she would make him slow down, though. She breathed hard through her nose as he bit her lower lip, eliciting an involuntary moan from deep inside her chest, a moan he couldn't help but copy. She slid her fingers to the smooth skin at the back of his neck, but quickly missed the bristle of his facial hair.

When clothes eventually got in the way of their roaming hands, Malcolm started walking backwards slowly, his mouth never leaving hers. She followed blindly, her body humming with expectation. A door was opened then closed, and Clara found herself roughly pushed against it. But Malcolm's arms were there to cushion her back, and she ground herself against his unmistakable hardness, one of her legs rising to hook around his waist. He groaned when their centres finally connected, and he helped her raise her other leg to settle all her weight on his hips. Her body now flushed against his, the air around them crackling with desire, Malcolm released her lips and Clara arched her back, pressing herself more snugly against his erection. He emitted a low purr at the contact and rasped his tongue across her neck. Her breath was coming in short gasps, and she let herself succumb under his touch. She tried unsuccessfully to generate more friction between them, but this would mean untangling her legs from his waist. When Malcolm felt her hands slowly sliding down his chest and reach his fly, he stiffened and started walking backwards once more, Clara still draped around him.

She suddenly felt a mattress under her and their clothes were gone in a matter of seconds. Clara then pulled him back into the cradle of her thighs, where he belonged. There was no time for hesitation, only action and reaction. The thudding of her heart answered his and only his and the emotions raging through her were for him and only him. For this moment. This instant between them. Malcolm gazed down at her with hungry, burning eyes and as they joined Clara felt that she was getting him back. She was getting the man she'd fallen in love with back.

 

_Malcolm Finn Tucker, evidence has come to light, as a result of which I'm arresting you on suspicion of holding and distributing child pornography. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that clear?_

He didn't recognise the voice. It was so very cold and inflexible. Other voices followed, other words. All of them just as cruel and accusing. Then another voice, softer. And another sound - a scratching of some kind. The new voice was calling out his name. A woman. But it wasn't his mother or his sisters. He had difficulty recognising that tone, although he unconsciously tried to reach out for it. To find its source. That voice was safe, he knew. That voice...

"Malcolm!"

Darkness. Soft sheets smelling of dust and sweat and...

"Wake up, Malcolm!"

Hands running through his hair. And the scratching sound was still there. It came from the door. Someone was at the door. Someone was there to... He sat up quickly, dread engulfing him once more.

"Shh, it's okay, it's just the Doctor."

Padding feet, creaking wood and a fast shape running straight for him. Blueish light had also appeared from behind the door, and Malcolm managed to catch a glimpse of the whining dog. He leaned down towards him and started patting him expertly behind the ears, like he had done almost every morning this past week.

"The nightmare woke him," said Clara, coming to sit with him on the small bed. Beautiful, naked Clara. He felt his cheeks heating up self-consciously at his own nakedness, and lowered his eyes to the dog.

"Yes, he's always having nightmares," he replied in a raspy voice.

"I didn't mean him. It was _your_ nightmare that woke him. He heard you before I did." Malcolm stopped petting the animal, and turned towards Clara, his embarrassment forgotten.

"What?"

"You were having a bad dream, and the Doctor heard it. Or felt it, I'm not sure how that works. He hasn't done that in a long time, but I remember."

"But... No, he was the one having a nightmare, that's why he's making that sound," Malcolm said, frowning, doubt creeping in his mind.

"He's making that sound because you scared him, and he wants to make sure that you're alright," she enunciated slowly, moving closer to him and looking at him with compassionate eyes. He quickly averted his gaze, feeling trapped. When the Doctor quieted down, he stood up.

"I'll uh, go and sleep on the sofa, no point keeping you awake," he muttered, bending down to retrieve some of his clothes.

"It's almost morning, and I'm not planing on getting back to sleep. Stay here, Malcolm," she told him earnestly.

"I'll go for a swim, then."

"A swim?"

"Yeah, I need a swim. And I have to check for new messages." His boxers and trousers back on, he finally turned towards her once again. She wasn't ashamed of her own nudity, and Malcolm couldn't help but stare at her body longingly for a few seconds. Her eyes remained inscrutable.

"Can I take the Doctor with me? He usually comes with me," he asked, remembering all of a sudden why she had come here. Why she had _probably_ come here. She lowered her shoulders, puzzled.

"Of course you can. But Malcolm..."

"I'll be quick, I promise. If they come while I'm away, tell them I'll be right back." He turned his back to her before he had time to see her reaction, and was soon on his way down the cliff.

The sun was just about to rise behind him, but he still got in the water much faster than usual. He almost didn't feel the cold, and swam for a short while. He'd managed to swim just a bit longer each day, and today was no exception. The previous morning, he had thought this would be the last time he ever felt the salty water against his skin. The last time for a long time. Maybe today, then. Better make the most of it. He ran back to the towel he now brought down with him, the Doctor at his heels, and only then did he stop and think about Clara, and about what they did. He shouldn't make her wait, she probably wanted to leave quickly. _Probably_. That word, again.

Towelling himself dry, his limbs shaking, he noticed small red marks on his chest. And the obvious imprint of teeth near his belly button. When she... _Jesus_ , he thought, wondering wistfully what it would be like to make love to her again. Properly. What it would be like if she were his for more that one night. And not just one night she felt enough pity inside her to grant a dying man's last request. Except he hadn't requested anything. And he hadn't tasted pity on her lips. But that's what it had been about, right? His heart clenched painfully, and Malcolm couldn't decide if it was because of the cold or because he wanted to be wrong about his last assessment.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Clara watched him exit the cabin with her dog at his heels and a towel under his arm worryingly. When the door closed, she finally noticed how cold she was. And how naked. For a few tensed seconds, she wondered whether she should just leave as well. She'd behaved rashly, she knew, and had only listened to her instincts. In the freezing half-light of dawn, Clara started doubting herself and her decision to come here. Her decision to throw caution to the wind and simply let herself _feel_ . Let herself share the only thing she could share with the man she had come to love. Would it be enough? She didn't naively believe that she could _save_ him - whatever the hell that meant in a situation like this - but this didn't mean that she couldn't try and help him.

She sighed deeply and started dressing up in the previous day's clothes. She wanted to feel warm again. Feel him next to her again. For that to happen, she needed to get her mind straight first. A shower would be nice, but she expected him back - him or the police, actually - any second. And if he hadn't been joking about his intent to swim, he'd need a hot shower more than her.

There was barely any light outside, and the cold drizzle prickled at her cheeks almost accusingly. _What have you done?_ She picked her bag from the boot of her car and set it inside the cabin next to the sofa. Sitting down, she found herself once again alone with her thoughts.

Clara couldn't regret what she'd done. What _they'd_ done. She had felt more alive that she had in weeks, and there was no mistaking that Malcolm had felt the same. What she regretted was how she had handled things this morning. She hadn't realised that he was having a nightmare until she heard the Doctor scratching at the door outside. The sound had frozen her in fear and brought back its lot of deeply buried memories. It had taken her precious seconds to notice that she wasn't the one having a bad dream, but rather the shaking man lying next to her. His belief that her dog was the one who needed comfort had almost brought tears to her eyes, since she remembered thinking the same thing when she had been in his position not so long ago.

She was prevented from torturing herself further by the sound of the back door creaking open. Malcolm's skin was almost as white as the towel hanging from around his neck, and Clara was once again startled by how much weight he'd lost since she'd last seen him at Downing Street. Her eyes must have betrayed her thoughts, because he started fidgeting nervously. Self-consciously. As though he was still naked, like when he had woken up this morning.

"I like the new look," she said, aiming for levity. He raised his considerable eyebrows in question, and she smiled slightly despite herself.

"The crazy wooly hair and the beard. It's nice," she added, taking strange pleasure in his dumbfounded expression.

"Right," he muttered, his hands unconsciously reaching for his face and the back of his neck, as though unsure if she was actually talking about him.

His eyes now fixed on the ground, he finally took note of her bag. A bag that clearly held more than one change of clothes. Malcolm abruptly stopped wringing his hands, and he looked up wonderingly at her. She was apparently behaving in a way that he hadn't expected. Too bad, she thought, secretly pleased with herself.

"I'll go shower," he then supplied unnecessarily, given how cold and drenched he looked.

"I'll make us some tea," Clara answered, paradoxically finding strength - strength he himself lacked - in his hesitation.

When she heard the water starting, she also took the time to properly greet her dog. She hadn't been alone with him yet, given how otherwise occupied she'd been the previous night. Unlike Malcolm, he looked radiant and full of life. All that space and clean air was probably doing him a world of good. She smiled, happy that someone was at least benefiting from the situation.

Malcolm was subdued when he came out of the shower, as though he'd had a proper think under the warm spray. But he didn't voice his feelings and indeed barely spoke to her. He kept throwing nervous glances at the door, and each time a wooden shutter creaked outside or the wind rattled the door, he tensed up and swore under his breath, castigating himself for his uncontrollable reaction. Clara had a hard time stopping herself from reaching out to him, but she knew her touch wouldn't be welcomed. Not then.

The weather outside was as bleak as the mood inside. The sun remained firmly hidden behind heavy clouds, and the rain didn't let up. The police hadn't arrived by noon and Clara distracted herself by making a light lunch consisting of microwaved lasagne. No wonder he'd lost weight, she thought, realising that tea, crisps and whiskey were the only appealing food she found in the cupboards. Neither ate more then a few forkfuls, and neither spoke. Malcolm started pacing the room as soon as he was up from his kitchen chair, and Clara tried not to ask him to stop. His incessant movements were giving her a headache, and her utter ineffectiveness angered her.

When he got tired of walking, he sat down on the sofa and started pouring once more over the files that lay scattered on the coffee table. There was one particular printed sheet of paper he kept coming back to, and Clara's curiosity was piqued. Walking behind him, she managed to catch a glimpse of it, and what she read made her gasp audibly in disgust. The police hadn't included the incriminating pictures in their report, but they had still felt it necessary to supply a detailed written description for each and every one of them. Short and to the point as said descriptions may be, they still didn't spare any sordid detail, and Clara felt sick to her stomach after picking up only a few words.

"Stop reading that. You won't find any answer in there, you're just going to make yourself feel worse," she blurted out, her voice shaking.

Malcolm turned swiftly towards her, startled to see her standing right behind him.

"I'll do what I like," he stubbornly answered, his eyes leaving hers quickly to go back to the horrid list.

Clara walked around the sofa to face him, her pace resolute.

"This is stupid and pointless, what are you trying to achieve?"

"What is it to you?" he roared, standing up and discarding the file angrily.

"You shouldn't read that," she told him, unconcerned by his towering figure over her.

"On the contrary, I think I should," he replied darkly, his long legs taking him around the small room once more.

"But this is sick!"

"That's the point, maybe _I'm_ fucking sick. Sick and perverted and twisted and..."

"Stop that," she interrupted him, grabbing his forearms to prevent him from escaping. But he was strong. And determined. His eyes held pure, unadulterated disgust. Whether the disgust was aimed at himself or her, she couldn't be sure.

"Haven't you heard, Clara?" he bellowed, his own hands holding her elbows in a vice, "I'm about to be arrested. Any minute, now. Who the fuck do you think I am, exactly? Who the fuck do you think _you_ are, telling me what to do?"

She was shaking, part in fear and part in rage. Malcolm wasn't just unhinged, he was completely disconnected with the outside world. He probably didn't even know he was talking to her, locked inside his own mind. A mind haunted by dangerous demons.

"I said stop it, Malcolm!" she yelled, using all the strength she had left to push against his chest forcefully. He took a step back, and his hands slid to her wrists, which he kept on clenching tightly.

"I have every right to tell you what to do, and you need to listen to me," she added, intent on trying to push him away once more, but his grip was almost painful and he prevented her from removing her hands from his chest. "I know who you are."

"You have no idea. I could be evil and you wouldn't even know it," he interrupted her. She pushed against his chest in answer, angry tears starting to leak from her eyes. But she wouldn't give up now. She had come this far.

"You are not evil, Malcolm."

"How would you know?"

"You are _not_ evil. Trust me on that. I've seen evil and you are not _it_."

This seemed to give him pause, and she took the opportunity to release her wrists from his grasp with a hard shove that almost made him trip over the carpet.

"What else would you have me do, then?" he asked her, changing the subject but not ready to end the conversation yet, "I'm fucking trapped, here."

"Jamie and Sarah will find something," she reasoned, wondering if she should keep her distance from him.

"Oh yeah? And what have they found? Did Jamie tell you something I don't know during your nightly rituals of phoning each other?"

_How the hell did he know about that? And where was this jealousy coming from?_

She approached him slowly, wary of his flailing arms but more scared of the message she would be sending if she stayed away. Anger was gradually leaving him, she could see it in his eyes. He looked exhausted.

"You're just all delaying the inevitable. And I'm fucking tired of waiting." Malcolm had stopped yelling, and she walked as close to him as she dared.

"I'm tired of waiting, Clara," he repeated quietly. Defeated.

Clara nodded in understanding, her eyes not leaving his as she slid her trembling hands around his neck. She kissed him slowly, tenderly, letting him get used to her touch.

"I know," she whispered against his lips, wishing she could swallow his pain and make it disappear.

Malcolm's response was guarded at first, but he eventually placed his hands tentatively on her hips and deepened their kiss. Clara let him press her body closer to his and moved her hands to smooth through his unruly hair. It was still slightly wet from his morning shower and her weaving fingers seemed to elicit a new fervour in her lover.

If the previous night had been about feeling alive, today was about drowning despair. Their passion was unforgiving and finding release was their only goal. Their moans were half pain, half pleasure and they paid little mind to either their clothes or the furniture that separated them from the bedroom. The tender kisses had quickly been replaced by bruising, urgent ones. There was no time to savour the feeling of a light touch or a whisper. Everything was wild and fast and loud and rough. A bite where her shoulder met her neck. A pressure building far too quickly between her legs. A burning wave about to crash over the both of them. Hot tears mingling on their necks. They didn't care whose tears they were or what had caused them. The only thing that mattered was completion and the peace it would hopefully bring.

Clara clutched Malcolm's sharp-featured body tightly against hers on the bed, enjoying the feel of his long fingers caressing her breasts in a way that was wonderfully out of synch with his deep and powerful strokes inside of her. They were both out of breath and light headed, but reaching their peak was of the outmost importance. As though everything, including their very sanity, depended on it. His back muscles were tensing under her hands, and his moans became more and more insistent. She was close, oh so close, and his wiry frame kept pounding against her and eliciting deep, almost painful cries from inside her. He was baring his very self to her, and she gave as good as she got, using her short nails to leave marks against his spine.

She pressed her lips forcefully to his when her orgasm surged and he joined her soon after with a sharp exhale and a shudder, her name a relieved sigh against her mouth. Clara wanted him to stay inside her and never let go, but he eventually settled next to her on his side, his breath coming in short gasps. She almost complained at the loss of his presence and the last thing she felt before she succumbed to the darkness was a sloppy kiss on her neck. They both fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, their nerve endings still on fire.

 

Malcolm woke up to a pleasant, warm weight over his chest. Clara's body was draped over his in the small bed, and he breathed in the smell of her hair and her skin deeply. It was probably the first time in a long time he hadn't been woken up by a nightmare, so he took a few minutes to enjoy the simple pleasure of feeling his limbs come to life again. Not just his limbs, he realised quickly, and he let himself savour that sensation too. He could similarly barely remember the last time he had woken up next to another person, especially someone as beautiful and sexy as Clara Oswald. His hands slowly moving over the soft skin of her lower back, careful not to startle her, he realised that he didn't care if the police came in right now. Sure, they would shatter the serenity of the moment, but at least he would take this precious memory with him.

He sighed, very much aware that his current mood wouldn't last, and disengaged himself as quietly as he could from Clara's hold. Thankfully, she didn't wake up, and he blindly picked up the clothes he recognised as his from the floor. Closing the door behind him, he noticed that it was still dark outside, and that the wind was howling with more insistence than usual. He found the Doctor in his usual spot next to the sofa, and he seemed thrilled at the prospect of going on a short walk outside. The elements were working against him, but he still managed to check his voicemail - no new messages - and observe the gathering clouds lighted by the moon over the churning sea. A storm was coming.

Back inside, he made some coffee, wrapped himself in the scratchy blanket and tried to read a few more chapters of the Dickens novel Sam had given to him. But he felt trapped between his wish for the Met to knock already and arrest him, and his wish to join Clara in the next room again. He knew that realistically, five o'clock on a Sunday morning was probably not the moment the police would choose to come and indict him. On the _fucking_ Isle of Wight, at least. Sadly, he also knew that there likely wouldn't come another time when he felt such quietude at the prospect of being taken away in cuffs. The happy bubble surrounding him was quickly fading into non-existence. It would be completely gone shortly.

The files on the coffee table seemed to stare at him accusingly. _You don't deserve to be happy. You know it won't last. Why go through all this pain again?_ SoMalcolm angrily picked them up, and went through all of them one more time. Despite Clara's warning, he didn't skip the sordid list, and actually welcomed the anger it always kindled inside him. He had started to become quite familiar with this anger, and he let himself being swallowed by it.

When he woke up again, it was to the terrifying certainty that everything was about to end. The very house was shaking on its foundations with this realisation, and it took him a while to notice that the storm he felt raging inside of him was raging outside as well.

"It's okay, it's just me," said Clara's blurry face. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa, files lay scattered everywhere and she was standing over him.

"Sorry," he whispered, even though he wasn't quite sure what he was apologising for.

He sat up against one of the armrests, and slid his fingers over his face. Perhaps the time had come to shave, he thought. But a part of him enjoyed this small rebellion, and he hadn't missed Clara's apparent interest in it. A light dose of vanity had never killed anyone after all.

"What?" he eventually said, reading quite reproach in her eyes.

"You didn't have to leave," she told him.

"I didn't think I'd manage to go back to sleep."

"Still. You could have woken me. I wouldn't have minded."

Malcolm observed her closely. This beautiful young woman who offered herself to him so willingly. So completely. So utterly. This wasn't right. He was missing something. Something important that would explain her behaviour. Clara seemed to read his thoughts and sighed, worry lines appearing between her eyebrows. She folded one leg under her and sat down on the sofa. Just close enough to touch him if she stretched out her arms, which she did.

"Malcolm..."

He prevented her from adding more by encircling her wrists with his hands. When she winced, he stiffened and looked down. Small bruises were forming there, the imprint of his fingers clearly visible. He blanched, and let go of her hands as though burned. He tried to stand up to put more distance between them but she wouldn't let him, and pulled hard against his shoulders.

"Malcolm, look at me." He wouldn't. This was worse than he had thought. Had he really lost control to the point of hurting her? Leaving a mark on her fine, precious skin? What kind of monster was he becoming?

"It's okay, I bruise easily. You didn't hurt me, I swear." Her tone was slightly desperate, as though she knew very well who he was afraid of turning into. And why he felt like acid was burning a hole inside his stomach.

"Please, look at me," she repeated, her small hands framing his face, stroking his facial hair. "You're not evil, Malcolm."

He deigned raising his eyes to hers, although he didn't manage to quench the anger tormenting him. It would be so easy to push her away. Just as easy as tugging her down towards him to kiss her, but he still chose the former.

"What's in it for you, Clara? I just don't understand."

"Understand what?" she asked, clearly puzzled, her hands stopping their movements and settling on his shoulders once more.

"Is it pity or guilt that makes you do that?" Malcolm didn't have to elaborate on the 'that', she knew perfectly well what he meant. What he hadn't anticipated was that it would quite simply enrage her.

"Pity?" she repeated darkly, a cold smile on her lips, "Is that what you think this has all been about? A pity shag for the poor Malcolm Tucker who's about to be arrested for a terrible crime he didn't commit?"

Malcolm gulped down, very much aware of the presence of her hands next to his neck. In that moment, he believed that she might very well strangle him if she wanted to. His eyes widened at the realisation that she was just as good as him at using her anger to control her emotions.

"Or maybe it's guilt, you're right. Guilt at the responsibility I feel for letting you erase that fucker from the registry."

He wanted to tell her that it wasn't her fault, and that he would have done it whether she'd been in his office or not, but she didn't give him the chance. She'd pressed her face right in front of his and straddled his lap unceremoniously. He bit back a groan at her closeness, but his reaction didn't escape her and she looked victorious. This conversation was going in a direction he hadn't foreseen.

"I _do_ feel terribly guilty about that, Malcolm. You have no idea." He couldn't tell if she was being serious, what with her undulating hips and the sweet pressure he felt building in his groin. He slid his hands to her sides with the firm intention of stopping her but realised once they were in place that he couldn't.

"Oh, and by the way," she added, her lips millimetres from his own, tantalising him, "you forgot something on your list."

"What?" he asked stupidly, his own hips starting to rise from the sofa to create more friction between them.

"Pity, guilt, and let's not forget daddy issues. Everyone would agree on that one." Her smile was definitely impish, now, and he thus didn't hesitate to move his hands to her arse and press her snugly over his rapidly growing erection. She moaned wantonly and his heart skipped a beat at the sound.

"Clara?"

"Yes?" she replied, her eyes closed and her fingers stroking the hair at the back of his neck.

"Please don't say the word 'daddy' when you're sitting on my cock." She opened her eyes and for the first time that day smiled genuinely at him. She moved her mouth to his ear and whispered a breathless 'Yes, sir,' that gave him tingles all the way to his toes. Clara then started rasping her tongue across his collarbone and he forgot where his earlier anger had been coming from.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Malcolm didn't think he would be able to sleep that night. And given that he could still feel Clara's fingers at the back of his neck, he guessed that she wouldn't be abandoning him to join Morpheus anytime soon either. Despite that, they wouldn't speak. And Malcolm wouldn't even look at her. He debated whether he should just get out of bed and do something constructive, but he knew that the same files were waiting for him in the other room. That and nothing else. Also, he didn't think Clara would take too kindly to his leaving her to the cold sheets once more – she'd made that obvious only a few hours before. ****

The silence was starting to feel overbearing. Even the wind outside had quieted down and could no longer hide from his ears how fast his heart was beating. Just a few more hours, he thought. Just a few more hours until the _fuck me_ parade arrived. That or Jamie calling to tell him that Sarah had earned him some more days of freedom. _Freedom_ , he sniggered internally. What a laughable concept. He didn't know which outcome he actually preferred. Being done with it all or going back to square one? The only certainty he had was that Clara would no longer be with him. She needed to get back to her life and to her job.

“You should leave now and catch the first ferry,” he eventually said, his voice raspy and far too loud. “You'd be back at work on time.”

Her only reaction was to tighten her hold around him and grip his hair with her other hand more forcefully. They might not be facing each others, but the bed was small, and she wouldn't budge.

“What you said earlier,” he eventually added, realising that she wouldn't grant him a verbal answer, “about knowing who I was. What did you mean?”

He had kept replaying her words ever since his head had hit the pillow and his thoughts had started circling less carnal subjects. Once his heart had stopped beating to the tune of euphoria and bliss.

Malcolm felt her sigh against his neck and her palm stretch over the middle of his chest.

“You are a good man,” she started. And when he tried to physically shrug off her words, her hand formed a fist and pressed against him.

“You are wise and selfless. Honest to the extreme. Unforgiving but never cruel.” He tried to interrupt her but she wouldn't let him, and spoke again, her voice becoming more and more assured.

“The people wielding power - people like you, really. They shouldn't be judged from the way they treat their equals or their superiors. They should be judged from the way they treat their inferiors.”

Clara paused then, and Malcolm let her find her words, curious to know where she was heading.

“The person you're the nicest to at work is your PA. You say hello to all the guards individually and know their names. You never leave your office in a mess because you don't want to add to the cleaners' work.”

“But I have no qualms about doing live experiments on journalists or mouthing off just about everyone in government,” he countered, although he was validating her words.

“Yes,” she acknowledged readily, “and you gave a stranger a hundred quid after you got rid of her abusive boyfriend.”

“I once had a press advisor fired because he went to his daughter's flute recital on election night,” Malcolm retaliated.

“You put up your nephew's drawings on your wall and bite the head off anyone who looks at them a bit strangely,” she easily parried.

“I swear and shout and rage and make grown men either cry or shit themselves on a regular basis,” he finally summarized, happy with his description and convinced that would be the end of this particular talk.

“You kiss me like you mean it.”

His mind drew a blank there, and despite his resolve to win this argument, he couldn't find anything else to add. He thought he felt Clara smile against his neck. Not allowing himself to fold so easily, he let his thoughts turn sour once more. In a careful motion that beguiled his intentions, he gently grasped the hand that was laying on his chest and let his thumb rub against the small bruises that he had caused. He didn't need any light to know they were still there. Accusing blemishes on fine skin.

This time, Clara's sigh was less steady. And her words less assured.

“You're not evil, Malcolm,” she repeated simply.

He knew he could push her, then. Push her for more answers. She'd said earlier that she had seen evil, and he could have asked her to elaborate. But for once, he felt uncommonly reluctant to make her talk and mention a subject he instinctively knew to be painful. Perhaps he would come to regret his decision later. But instead, he chose to cling to her words like a drowning man. He  _needed_ to believe her, even if some part of him knew this wasn't quite right. Unbeknownst to him, Clara was likewise placing all her trust in this postulation. Being wrong would mean that she had failed a second time in her character judgement. She couldn't have made the same mistake twice. If she had, she didn't think there would be any going back, not this time.

“Have you ever read _A Tale of Two Cities_?” Malcolm asked out of the blue.

“That's the Dickens novel you've been reading?” she inquired.

“Almost finished it. I think I already read it years ago, but I couldn't remember the plot. Not all of it.”

“So you've been reading the story of a man sentenced to death because of the sins his father committed,” she commented, her tone one of glum. “And that doesn't strike you as odd?”

He turned towards her on the small bed, puzzled. She took the opportunity to slide her hands to his raspy cheeks. Malcolm couldn't really see her in the dark, but he thought she looked sad, so he let her kiss him. Then kiss him again. And she didn't protest when he rolled them over and settled on top of her. He tried taking things slow this time, as slow as he dared. Tried to savour her sharp exhales and low moans. Tried to map her features with the pad of his fingers. Tried to memorize the fragrance of her skin and her hair. But it proved too much for the both of them - too raw, too painful somehow. And they ended up clinging to one another and leave more marks on their bodies in their rush to completion with their nails and their teeth.

Clara was the first to rise the next morning. And the first to venture outside with her phone. When she came back in to relay Jamie's message, Malcolm didn't look as relieved as she had hoped.

“But this means they'll have more time to prove your innocence, and that the CPS solicitor might not have a case against you after all,” she voiced out.

“Or perhaps this means it was all a fucking joke to lure me in and scare the shit out of me,” he added, running his hands roughly over his face to remove all vestiges of sleep. Clara sat next to him on the bed, and he dimly realised that he felt less self-conscious about his nakedness this time round.

“So you'll be going, then?” he asked, his question more tentative than he'd hoped.

“Yes,” she replied, and he could tell that she wanted to reach out for him but didn't dare to. She wasn't even looking at him. “But I'm leaving the Doctor with you, he's happier than I've seen him in months.”

Malcolm allowed himself to smile at that, and it made her departure seem less painful. She admonished him to remember to eat and he resisted pointing out to her that she wasn't his mum. They didn't kiss on the doorstep, which he found disappointing, and the only thing he managed to do to get her out of his thoughts was to go for a long, freezing swim. And this turned out to be the only thing he actually did that day.

 

It wasn't hard for Clara to know whom she had the most difficulty leaving behind this time. She wondered why she felt as though she was running away from him when she hadn't promised him to stay in the first place. Focusing on anything at work proved difficult that afternoon, and it didn't get any easier the following days. Her only relief came when she was able to talk about Malcolm with Jamie. She had the distinct impression that he somehow knew what they had been up to the previous weekend, but he didn't comment on it, although he did sound more confident in his assertion that everything would soon turn out alright. Clara wished she shared his enthusiasm.

One thing she asked him though, was whether he thought it was possible to reunite Malcolm with his apparently only form of escapism – music. Clara had been struck by the sheer number of old records he owned on Christmas Eve, and she could only imagine how much he missed their soothing melodies. Practically, she was aware that transporting his collection and turntable to the Isle of Wright was unmanageable, but surely he had tapes or CDs lying around in his house.

The very next day, Jamie came to the Sanctuary Buildings and presented her with his solution. Malcolm's iPod. He explained to her in an uncharacteristically sheepish tone that he'd managed to conceal it from the police, since it was basically one more hard drive they might have wanted to go through. Clara didn't ask him why he was giving the player to her instead of bringing it to Malcolm himself the next time he saw him. Apparently, he had come to the valid conclusion that she would feel compelled to go to Brighstone before him. A resolution she hadn't consciously finished exploring yet.

She was often interrupted by mental images throughout her work day. Some plunged her into gloom, while others made her smile secretly and blush. Who knew that remembering the feel of Malcolm's teeth against her collarbone while one Oliver Reeder was rambling on about special needs kids could prove so exhilarating?

Sleep usually proved elusive. She would lie in bed torn between the notion that she had made a mistake leaving the remote cabin, and that of having gone there in the first place. Of having let her body speak instead of her mind and enjoyed it immensely. There was no denying that her relation with Malcolm wouldn't have remained platonic for long even if he hadn't been arrested. But this didn't prevent her from lingering on might have beens. Was it wrong of her to imagine a more romantic and joyful setting for their first time? Yet in a way, all the drama surrounding their joining fitted. And helped her put things in perspective. They'd have a chance to start it all over again one day if they wanted to. Clara just hoped this day would come sooner rather than later.

It felt strangely intimate to put Malcolm's iPod ear-buds to her ears. However, this turned out to be a source of rare solace for her. She steered clear of the music she already knew – The Beatles, The Clash, The Jam, The Rolling Stones, The Undertones, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple – but found herself drawn to jazz artists she had only ever seen written on old posters in Parisian trendy cafés. Sonny Rollins, Bill Evans, Lester Young, Wayne Shorter, Stan Getz. She grew particularly fond of the piano players, which helped her get through many a sleepless night and gave her what she felt was a tangible link with Malcolm.

When Friday came along, she realised how silly it had been of her to wonder whether she was entitled to take the road to Portsmouth once more. Only on the ferry did it dawn on her that Malcolm might not want her company. Her old car seemed to understand her misgivings and she had to stop a few times to let her engine cool off and allow more doubts to creep into her mind. Eventually, the smell wafting from the curry house she had parked in front of in Newport cemented her resolve, and she exited the city with a smile on her lips and her purse twenty pounds lighter.

Malcolm definitely didn't look like the man who'd made her scream his name a fair few times when he opened the door. But instead of letting it worry her, Clara took advantage of his bewildered, motionless state to push her way in.

“I brought dinner,” she declared, putting the heavy take out bag unceremoniously on the coffee table.

A small fire was roaring in the fireplace and she smiled when her dog yapped enthusiastically at her. She didn't resist her urge to pet him and whisper silly endearments to him. Clara then turned towards Malcolm, who had hardly moved, and wondered whether she was imagining the piqued jealousy she read on his face. _Probably,_ she surmised. Malcolm Tucker wasn't a man who liked to be petted. No matter how wonderfully fluffy or dishevelled him or his hair looked.

“How was your week, Clara? Very well, how was yours, Malcolm?” she sing-songed, sitting cross legged on the floor and arranging the various food cartons.

Malcolm stayed silent, but was eventually propelled into action and came back from the kitchen with plates and cutlery. Clara grinned while his back was turned and removed her jacket, having finally warmed over. Now sitting across from her, she took the time to observe him more closely. He definitely hadn't regained weight, if his sagging jeans were any indication, but he'd trimmed his beard slightly, thus making him look less like a vagabond and more like a history teacher. _Oh, well_.

“Did you want me to ask you about your week?” he finally said, once his plate was full.

“Not particularly,” she replied.

“What about you?” she added, “Do I want to know?”

“Not particularly,” he copied, but he was smirking slightly.

“I've read a few books,” he supplied, and she nodded, showing interest.

They ate in silence, and Clara tried to think of something to say.

“Fixed the ancient TV as well but there's no aerial on the roof so that was a wee bit disappointing.” She nodded once more.

The fire was crackling. Her dog was sighing heavily in that mournful way dogs had. The wind was making the shutter bang faintly against the walls outside. Malcolm dropped his fork.

“Oh for fuck's sake, tell me something, _anything_ about work, I'm dying of boredom here.”

She opened her eyes wide and laughed cheerfully, almost choking on some pepper in the process. Malcolm spread his arms widely and looked at her with a fake-contrite manner she found very convincing.

“ _Please_ , tell me that someone fucked up royally during an interview. That Cliff Lawton is planning a come back. That Tom at Transport has finally understood the difference between a bus lane and a bicycle lane. That Eric at the Treasury admitted he used to be called Erica.”

Clara was now vainly asking him to stop and slap her on the back to help her swallow properly. But he was on a roll.

“That Hugh Abbot finished reading _Winnie the Pooh_ and realised why everybody was calling him Eeyore behind his fucking back. Or better yet, tell me Oliver Reeder reached puberty. _Anything,_ Clara, I'm begging you.”

By the time he was done, tears were streaming down her face and the Doctor was looking at her worryingly. _God, I needed that_ , she thought. And Malcolm looked like he had, too.

Clara spent the rest of the meal enjoying telling him all that he had missed and hadn't been printed these past two weeks. Malcolm was drinking her words and this more than anything else proved to her that he had finally reached the end of his penance and was now ready to reconquer Whitehall, false accusations be damned.

Even his kisses tasted more playful, his strokes were more tender, and the way he whispered her name against the crook of her neck when they fell asleep in the tiny bed was more radiant.

 

Malcolm woke up to the sound of padding feet and fleeting cold against his bare chest which was quickly replaced by the welcome warmth of Clara's back. They hadn't closed the blinds and he could see that it was still dark outside. He thought she would be getting back to sleep and decided to do the same, but then he heard a soft clickety sound he was familiar with. Faint blue light briefly illuminated Clara's hair and distant piano notes could be heard. Malcolm reached forward and slid his hand over her stomach which made her jump in surprise.

“Sorry!” she said, turning towards him on the bed, “I thought you were asleep.”

She was listening to an iPod and quickly removed the ear-buds. He could still perceive a syncopated yet muffled rhythm in the background.

“Is that mine?” he asked, seeing a name he recognised when the screen lit up temporarily when she pressed pause.

“Yes,” she admitted, embarrassed, “I was supposed to give it back to you but I got used to listening to it during the night.”

“Do you like Thelonius Monk?” he wondered, clearly taken aback, “He's not necessarily very easy to listen to.”

“I didn't really, at first,” she conceded, “but there's something so honest in his hesitations and dissonant notes. You can almost hear him thinking about what he plays whilst he plays it. Mulling his music over. I like that.”

Malcolm had a hard time expressing what her words meant to him. So he stopped trying to and stayed silent. Still, he felt something lodge at the back of his throat and sting his eyes.

“Would you like to listen to it with me?” she inquired in a small voice.

“Yes,” he eventually managed to say.

She handed him an ear-bud and they laid face to face, their heads on the same pillow, the iPod between them. They listened to Monk's piano solos in the dark. Blue light illuminating their faces at irregular intervals when Malcolm skipped tracks to get to his favourites. _Round Midnight_. _Something in Blue_. _Crepuscule With Nellie_. _Ruby, My Dear_. _Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea._ He tried not to notice that she fell asleep with a small smile on her lips right at the end of _I'm Confessing That I Love You_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, not much plot. But I promise to get on with it - and the resolution - soon. Thank you so much for your patience with this story and your continued support.


	7. Chapter 7

 

This was the second time in just a few days he woke up with a smile on his face. He knew very well that the person lying beside him - more like half on top of him, really - was responsible. Malcolm breathed in deeply and tried to hold on to the memory. The fragrance of her hair. The softness of her skin. The welcoming weight of her body against his. He felt as though he had all the time in the world waiting for him at the end of his fingertips. As though he could be invincible as long as Clara was with him. Nothing could hurt him. No lies, no arrests, no trials. The depth of his feelings for her was surprisingly unthreatening. It should have been terrifying, he knew. He hadn't fallen quite that hard before, or quite that fast. ****

Such was his bliss that he felt sorry for people who didn't get to experience this affection at least once in their lives. Even for creeps like Hewitt. Given the blackness of his soul, would he even know what this rush of protective feelings was all about, though? In any case, there was one thing Malcolm was absolutely sure of. Love was the greatest incentive there ever was. The _only_ worthwhile incentive. He would gladly risk a lot if it meant shielding Clara from harm.

Malcolm blinked, his lethargic brain suddenly very much awake. _Love was the greatest incentive._ He didn't stop on this realisation, because he could easily accept it when the object of his feelings was sleeping contently right next to him. No, what made his heart skip a beat was the person he'd been thinking about before he veered off to more welcome subjects.

 _Hewitt_ . Of course, Hewitt. Always Hewitt. Was that what happened? _His_ incentive? Malcolm had to know. He couldn't lie there and do nothing. He slowly slid out of bed and made sure Clara was still fast asleep before exiting the small room. He was startled to see that it was close to nine already but the Doctor didn't let him forget how late it was, and gladly joined him outside once he had sloppily tied his shoelaces.

Malcolm tried not to run, but it was hard to resist when the only thing he could think of was reaching the hamlet's lonely phone box two miles away. He tried to compose his thoughts and get his breath back before punching in Jamie's number. _Would he even answer?_

“Yeah?”

“Jamie, it's me. Listen...”

“Malc, are you alright?”

Malcolm would have gladly disregarded his colleague's question if it weren't for his worried tone.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Can you talk?” he remembered asking, although he hoped that Jamie hadn't made the trip to Number 10 on a Saturday.

“Sure, I'm at the park with the bairns.”

Trust the young Scot to keep on surprising him to this day. Malcolm had less of a hard time imagining Jamie sitting on a park bench somewhere in rainy London with a double pram than he would have had a couple of months ago, but he didn't let that realisation give him pause.

“Listen, it's important. You remember that day when I deleted Hewitt from the registry?”

“How could I _not_ remember? That's the reason you're in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

“Remember when you came into my office after your pal Jeremy called you? You said he was shacking up with Stephanie Carrington, that bint from _The Mirror._ ”

“Yeah, I remember...” Jamie replied, clearly not following.

“Well, if the two are cosy, then couldn't he have asked her to...”

“We looked into it, yeah. She wasn't on the visitor's log. Or any log.”

Malcom's heart sank. It had been a long shot, granted. But he couldn't help but think that there was something there. Something they were missing.

“Sorry, Malc,” Jamie added in a subdued tone.

“Did Michael and Sarah investigate her in any way, do you know?”

“Huh... I could ask,” he replied, trying to sound more upbeat than he actually was.

“They should look into it. Tell them,” Malcolm insisted, refusing to let his resolve crumble.

“Okay, Malc, I will.”

Perhaps Jamie had heard the desperation in his voice, or perhaps he had realised that it was the first time Malcolm had vehemently asked for anything since the beginning of this ordeal. Regardless, his next words were more encouraging.

“It could be worth digging up, you're right.” A beat. “Always the women, eh?”

Malcolm smiled ruefully at that, glad to be back on more familiar footings with his friend.

“Never underestimate them,” he agreed.

“Never. That's why I _asked_ Sarah if she wanted me to take the bairns out this morning before she _forced_ me to.”

“You're so fucking whipped.”

“And you're so fucking jealous, admit it.”

This hit Malcolm a little too close to the chest for comfort.

“Speaking of... Is Clara there, by any chance?” _Oh, of course, Jamie had to go there._

“Clara? Yeah, she's squished in the wee phone box with me, keeping me warm.”

“I meant here on the island at the cabin, you pillock.”

“Yeah, she is,” he replied simply, his throat closing up slightly on the short words. Thankfully, Jamie didn't press him for more.

“Listen, I'll see what I can find out about that Carrington lass and I'll phone you back on this number at five. You'll be there?”

“Yeah, I will,” breathe in, “thanks, Jamie,” breathe out.

“Don't thank me yet, boss. Ta fucking ta.”

Malcolm walked back to the cabin more slowly, his mind a jumbled mess. The dog kept poking his shins with its black nose and he eventually leaned down towards it.

"What is it, mutt?" he asked, his tone warmer than his words.

The Doctor sat and looked up at him expectantly, refusing to take one more step until he'd imparted the human with the wisdom he was clearly lacking at the moment. Malcolm sighed, telling himself once again that he should stop endowing the border-collie with human emotions and thoughts. Even when he was staring at him with undisguised intelligence. Defeated, and feeling all the worse for it, he sat down on his haunches and petted the dog.

"Alright, you win," he whispered, and spent a few minutes scratching the Doctor's ears and earning himself some enthusiastic licks for his troubles.

When they took off again, his thoughts were clearer and he found it easier to focus on more pleasant subjects. Such as his plans for the day until Jamie called back. Plans that didn't imply leaving the bedroom.

 

It was Clara's turn to be woken up by the cold. But thankfully it was quickly replaced by Malcolm's warmth as he encircled her waist. She could tell that it was morning already, but she wanted to curl up against her lover and forget about the outside world for a little while longer.

"Mmh... Why is your arm so cold?" she mumbled, stroking the limb in question, which was laying across her chest.

"I had to go out and call Jamie," he replied, sounding wide awake.

"Oh? Everything okay?" she asked, dreading his answer.

"Yeah, everything's fine," he said, pressing a kiss against her neck.

Clara chose to believe his words and interlaced her fingers with his.

"You can go back to sleep, I'm not leaving," he added and she smiled, keeping her eyes closed.

"Good. Although I wasn't actually planning on sleeping."

"Even better," he approved, running kisses across her spine.

It was different this time, somehow. He'd been slow and playful the previous night, fierce and passionate the week before, but this was something else. Something she hadn't experienced with him, yet. Something she might have never experienced with anyone before, even. The only word she could think of to describe him was fervent. And not in a warm, loving way – though both adjectives could certainly fit – but in an earnest, worshipful way.

He'd linked their fingers and pressed her hands on either side of her head, thus compelling her to read all his emotions reflected in his eyes, which were staring right through her, millimetres from her own. They were breathing the same air, foreheads touching, and Clara felt every tremor in his body as though they were one and the same. He didn't give her any place to hide and she stubbornly refused to close her eyes, which to her would have been akin to admit defeat.

Forcing her hands deep into the mattress, he stretched her open and she shook, feeling his own muscles strain. His deep strokes left her wordless. She could only clench his fingers tightly in answer and spiral towards completion whilst his eyes burnt through hers, their colour almost disappearing in a world of darkness.

"Clara," he groaned, and that was enough.

She came with a victorious yell and Malcolm shuddered a few times before collapsing on top of her. He let go of her hands and she stroked his back as he worked for air, trembling beneath her touch.

"No," she said, tightening her grip when he made to push off of her.

Malcolm relaxed then, and let his weight crumble against her. Clara stroked his unkempt hair and pressed a kiss to his brow, smooth and unlined in satiation. Her ministrations seemed to lull him to sleep, and she watched his back rise and fall gradually more slowly.

"I'm not letting you go," she whispered, the realisation scaring her.

Clara didn't sleep. She couldn't stop thinking about her vocal acknowledgement, albeit one she had made to an unconscious man. Somehow, she had reached the point of no return without realising it. Watching him be arrested again was now an impossibility. She was physically incapable of accepting it. Knowing in her heart that he was innocent wasn't enough – if the outside world couldn't accept it as well then she'd take matters into her own hands. Consequences – or the law, even – be damned.

She felt Malcolm stir up before he even opened his eyes. He'd only been asleep for half an hour at most, but it had given Clara the time to make up her mind.

“Hey,” she whispered as Malcolm slid his body next to her to look at her properly.

“Hey,” he grumbled back, feeling foolish for having succumbed to sleep when she clearly hadn't.

“So, I've been thinking...” she started after a sigh, knowing that if she didn't say it now she would never get the nerve, “we could always immigrate.”

The joke fell flat. Malcolm opened his eyes wide but didn't speak. Clara stroked his gruff cheek with one hand and worked up the courage to add more.

“We could leave, you and I. No need to go very far. If we just laid low for a while until it dies down or... or...”

“Clara,” he interrupted quietly.

“I know a great place in Brittany where we used to go when I was a kid. It's quiet and remote just like here, and...”

“Clara, it's going to be okay,” he tried again, one of his hands reaching for her chin to make her look at him.

“You don't know that,” she told him sullenly.

“We can't just disappear. They're not all completely daft at the Met, they'll find us.”

“No, they won't.”

“You're scared,” he realised, startled.

His tone made Clara look up, and she read clear surprise on his face. _Of course I'm scared, you idiot_ , she wanted to say. But she shouldn't. Not when he'd so recently stopped jumping out at every sound and feeling sorry for himself.

“I'm not scared,” she enunciated slowly, “I'm just trying to be practical here.”

“Practical?” he repeated, his eyebrows rising all the way to his hairline, “You call running away being 'practical'?”

“We wouldn't be 'running away',” she huffed, “just... _leaving_ for a while.”

“Is that your solution for everything, then? Hiding until things work themselves out?”

She gritted her teeth, not wanting to give him the satisfaction to see that his words had had an effect on her. Clara was familiar with the concept of running away, after all. She'd been doing it for a few years, now, metaphorically and not so metaphorically speaking. _Had he found her out, somehow?_

Risking a look, she could tell that he wanted to add more on the subject. Just like he had wanted to ask her more about her self-evident knowledge of evil the previous week. But he only pressed his lips in a tight smile and laid a hand at the base of her neck.

“I can't promise you that things will be hunky fucking dory and my reputation squeaky clean when this all blows over,” she smiled despite herself at his colourful vocabulary, “but this _will_ blow over, Clara.”

She nodded, but he wasn't finished.

“In fact, it would probably be best if you just stopped worrying your pretty little head over this sad old fool.”

“Bit late for that,” she acknowledged, which made him grin half-heartedly.“Yeah, don't say I didn't warn you. I'm fucking bad news.”

“That you are,” she agreed, burrowing her face against his chest, effectively hiding her still very much visible misgivings.

Malcolm didn't say anything more on the subject and simply held her. Clara sighed deeply a few minutes later and braced herself internally.

“Now tell me what that call to Jamie was all about,” she asked him purposefully.

 

Malcolm was staring at the black plastic phone five minutes before it was supposed to ring. He'd managed to persuade Clara not to come with him, unwilling to see her reaction if Jamie hadn't found anything. He didn't want to read the disappointment on her beautiful face. The dog was with him, though. He knew he'd probably come to rely on the faithful mutt a bit too much. To think he hadn't wanted anything to do with him, at first. And here they were, the both of them waiting patiently for a miracle to happen.

“I'm getting too fucking sentimental over all this, dog. Next step I'll be reciting Wordsworth or some other idiotic vomit-inducing drivel.”

A pause.

“Perhaps I should start by not talking to bloody pets.”

He was prevented from further self-recriminations by the ringing telephone.

“Jamie?” he made sure.

“Yeah, big man. Got it in one.” Malcolm couldn't read his tone, which worried him.

“Come on, just tell me, did you find anything?” he pressed.

“Well, I only had a few hours, and it being a Saturday and all...”

“Don't make me beg, you twat.”

“Stephanie Carrington definitely _didn't_ put those pictures in your computer,” he said, his tone level.

Malcolm swallowed thickly, his sweaty hand gradually losing its grip on the appliance.

“Yeah?” he forced himself to say over the sound of blood noisily rushing to his ears. He wasn't fooling anyone, he knew. Jamie would clearly hear how unsteady he sounded.

“Yeah, but we did find something else.” Malcolm breathed in deeply, not caring now if his colleague knew he was panicking.

“Malcolm,” all seriousness. “We haven't found anything incriminating yet but this is big. This could be it.”

“What?” he wanted to yell, but it came out as a whisper.

“Stephanie Carrington has a sister who used to work for _The Standard_ but resigned a few weeks ago. She's recently been given a job as a reporter specialising in sordid fucking trash by our friend Hewitt. You know her, Malc. _We_ know her.”

“Who is she?” His mind was frantically searching for an answer.

“Catherine Hadley,” Jamie supplied, “the hack you sent on a manure survey or whatever in December. The one who was going to report on the Health scandal because Keith Graham opened his bloody gob as well as presumably his fly in her presence.”

But Jamie didn't have to tell him more, he knew _exactly_ who he was talking about. She'd been there that night at the Treasury party. He'd actually toyed with the idea of having her fired on the spot just a few hours later. Something he probably would have done if it weren't for the fact that it might have come to harm someone he'd met for the first time. Someone wearing a scandalously beautiful red dress.

“Fuck,” he uttered rhetorically.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

Malcolm and Jamie had agreed that the younger Scot would call him back the next day at two, to hopefully give Sarah enough time to collect evidence. The solicitor knew that if she found anything incriminating, she would have to relay it to the police, but at least the process of clearing Malcolm's name would be on its way to be implemented.

_And that was all that mattered_ , Malcolm tried to convince himself. For the charges to be dropped and his life to get back to normal - or at least as normal as it had been before this whole mess started. It was no use focusing on what ifs and might have beens.

_What if he'd had the hack fired? Would it have triggered her cruel revenge no matter what? Was she even entirely responsible? Had she been manipulated by Hewitt? By her sister? Both? Did they all collude to precipitate his fall? What if he'd been wrong and she had nothing to do with it? What if he were back to square one?_

He closed his eyes, and made his way back to the cabin. _Enough_. There was nothing he could do but let Sarah and her brother do their jobs. Malcolm was starting to get used to the feeling of letting other people taking care of him. He still didn't like it - probably never would - but he could see at least that he didn't have much choice in the matter.

Once he reached the house, he could tell that Clara was just as anxious as he had been to hear about Jamie's findings. Malcolm was more reassuring than his friend, and he found it surprisingly easy to embellish the truth for her. She had scared him with her escape plan speech. Not scared in the sense that it worried him. Scared in the sense that he didn't quite know how to respond or react. He hadn't anticipated that his plight might trigger that kind of emotional reaction in someone other than him. There was probably something there worth digging, something that had made Clara react in that unexpected way, but Malcolm didn't think he had the required tools to tackle those personal issues. He didn't want to risk messing up what they had - not yet.

The hours moved at a ridiculous pace the following day: he couldn't believe that after two weeks on this God forsaken island time could go even slower. He felt even more anxious than when he had expected the police to knock on his door at any time. And Clara's incessant questions didn't help. He was on the verge of snapping at her when she asked the question he had been dreading all along:

"Is it my fault?"

No matter how vehemently Malcolm tried to make her see that it wasn't - _No way. Just get it out of your fucking head, Clara_ \- he could still read doubt in her eyes. And self-recrimination.

"There's no way to know if there is a link between me denouncing her to her boss and her framing me," he added, rephrasing the same sentiment one more time for her.

"You can't know that. Maybe that was what triggered everything," she stubbornly replied.

"You're right, I can't, so let it go" he replied, tersely.

There was no real anger in his voice, but Malcolm still felt that his words might have been too harsh. Yet, instead of looking as though she had been slapped, as he'd feared, Clara looked relieved. As if the voicing of his doubts, which he had tried to suppress, settled something for her. Pleased her, in some strange way.

"What are you going to do?" she asked calmly, sitting back down on the sofa.

Malcolm stared at her for a few seconds, wondering why her reaction upset him so much.

"If Sarah finds anything, anything at all, then I'm going back. I'm tired of hiding. Let them come after me, I'm not fucking scared."

"Just like that, you'll get back to your job, as if nothing happened?"

"Just like that," he confirmed.

Clara looked sombre for a second there, and once more he wondered why. He stopped his pacing and decided to sit next to her. It was almost time to leave for the phone-box, and he didn't want them to part like that. Not when so much was hanging in the balance.

Malcolm searched for the right words but came up empty. What was he supposed to tell her? That they could remain in this place indefinitely? And keep on pretending that the outside world didn't exist? He sighed audibly and looked at the Doctor for guidance. _He's a bloody dog, you stupid fool_.

"I'll go," he said, standing up, "I don't want to miss the call."

"Sure," she whispered. Then, closing her eyes and shaking her head quickly, she added in a stronger voice, "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No, thanks, I'd rather not," he admitted.

She moved her lips in the semblance of a smile and nodded in understanding. The Doctor followed him automatically when he opened the door, and Malcolm didn't feel it necessary to ask her if her dog could accompany him.

 

  
_"There's something there_."

Those were the words Jamie used. And although they might have amounted to next to nothing, for Malcolm they were enough. Enough to propel him back to the cabin at a speed even the Doctor found surprising after having followed the human back from his morning swims at a very brisk pace already.

He hadn't even paid close attention to the rest of his friend's speech. _The police had already started looking at her_ , and _they were only missing a link._ Or something. Whatever. It didn't matter. He could go home. Soon, all those bleak weeks would be a thing of the past. The bitter wind, the shutters banging on the walls at night, the lumpy sofa, the freezing water and the neverending grey sky.

When he reached the cabin, he paused. Staring blankly at the small red car whilst getting his breath back. _Would he be leaving Clara behind as well? Would she want anything to do with him now that he was on his way to become the fearful enforcer of Downing Street once more?_ Malcolm couldn't allow himself to think about that yet. There would be time for that later - _he hoped_. For now, only one thing mattered: getting his spot back.

But for that to happen, he needed to reach London, first. Which meant asking Clara to drive him home. What should have been a happy event - he was finally free to leave, even though Jamie had advised him to stay put for a few more days, a piece of advise he knew very well his boss wouldn't follow - turned out to be a very grim affair.

They packed in silence. It didn't take long since Malcolm hadn't brought a lot of stuff with him to begin with, and soon they were all piled in the tiny Citroën with the Doctor in the back and the Doctor's seat set to accommodate his long legs.

The journey itself was no better. They barely exchanged a few words until they reached the ferry, and both stubbornly refused to exit the car to get some - _very much needed_ \- fresh air once they had boarded. The Doctor seemed to understand that the humans shouldn't be interrupted in their silent musings and stayed resolutely quiet for the whole choppy crossing.

"Are you planning on going to Downing Street tonight?" eventually asked Clara as they were docking. She knew that the traffic was probably going to be hell at some point, it being a Sunday.

"No, I've got stuff to do first," he replied, running his hands over his raspy cheeks and curly hair. He couldn't go to the office looking like that. Crossing his arms over his chest, he also wondered whether any of his suits would fit correctly. He had to dress the part - he had to reclaim his kingdom and look like he belonged. Look - and sound - like he could run the whole damn place if he wanted to. Which in his mind, he did, though not at this particular moment.

"Shame. I'm going to miss that hair," said Clara, surprising them both by sounding her usual self.

He allowed himself a small smile at that, but soon her car started making a rattling, worrying sound, and his grin disappeared.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asked, when the engine stuttered once more.

"I've been pushing her a bit too hard, lately," Clara admitted, slowing down marginally.

"We are _going_ to reach London tonight, right?"

"Of course we are," she answered, her teeth set. _Don't do this to me now,_ she implored her car silently. She could feel Malcolm seething next to her. Her car was still holding its own admirably - so what if the engine was making the sound of an agonising yak? - and they still had miles to go.

Unfortunately, her prayers didn't work. And they had to stop at the first service station where they both got out. Malcolm wanted to get a mechanic, but Clara was adamant.

"They're going to tell me that the reparations will cost more than selling it for scrap, no thanks!"

"Do you think it's just going to fix itself whilst you let it cool off?" he asked sarcastically.

She closed her eyes and counted to ten. Tried, at least. But she hadn't even reached six when he started again.

"Because if it's all the same to you, I'd rather ask a _professional_ to look at it and not be stuck on a fucking lay by at three in the morning."

"We're not on a lay by, and it's not even six, yet. And I'm not completely ignorant about cars, I can manage on my own," Clara retorted sharply.

Deciding that her car had cooled down enough, she closed the bonnet resolutely and sat once more behind the wheel, staring at Malcolm impatiently as if _he_ was the one delaying them. Huffing, he joined her, and grumbled silently at his luck.

Clara realised a few miles later that that she had been slightly too hasty.

"Now smoke?" Malcolm bellowed.

"You don't have to yell, I'm sitting right next to you!"

Thankfully, it had started to rain, and she managed to hide her angry tears from him. _Stupid, stupid car!_ Malcolm hadn't followed her outside this time, for which she was also grateful, since they were now on an actual lay by and she couldn't _wait_ to hear his reaction about that little titbit.

She sighed heavily and noticed that her hands were shaking. Malcolm had every right to be anxious, she thought. And she had _no_ right to spoil his return. He'd been waiting for it for so long - he'd probably even stopped believing that it would even ever happen at some point. And here she was, unable to do that small thing for him. Driving him back to London. To his freedom. Clara felt like an abject failure and had a very hard time stopping more tears from rolling down her cheeks. _I can't even do that for him. What kind of a friend am I? What kind of..._ She stopped there, and let her shoulders drop. _Best not to think about that yet_.

Her small breakdown at least meant that this time, when she went back inside, enough time had actually elapsed for her car to start up more smoothly. Malcolm didn't make any comment, although she knew that she probably looked a mess, with wind swept hair and smeared mascara. The sun was setting and it had started to rain pretty heavily. Classic weather for England in January, but Clara couldn't help but think that this didn't fit with what should have been a joyful celebration. _This does fit with our moods, though_.

They had almost reached Guildford when her car started acting up again. And this time, Clara knew that opening the bonnet for 20 minutes wouldn't cut it. She managed to exit the A3 and park next to a deserted rugby field before her dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree. She expected Malcolm to start yelling at any second and she visibly tensed up, her eyes looking straight ahead at the foggy windscreen and her hands stubbornly gripping the steering wheel. But no sound came except for the gentle patter of the rain against the glass. She took a risk and turned her head to the right. Malcolm also seemed hesitant to look at her, and Clara immediately interpreted it as silent reproach and disappointment.

"I'm sorry, it's all my fault," she uttered pre-emptively before being immediately stopped by Malcolm raising his hand

"Don't," he started, although he was visibly struggling to keep his cool, "it's really not".

"Yes, yes it is, I can't seem to get anything right, and..."

"Clara, it's just a car."

"But not just that, also, also..." but she couldn't voice it out loud. Her guilt, her shame.

"What?"

"You know what. I know you don't want to say it, but it doesn't make it any less true."

"Clara, what?" he repeated, finally turning towards her on the seat.

He didn't look disappointed anymore, she realised. Merely puzzled.

"Malcolm..." she started again after taking a deep breath, but she lost her nerve.

"You should just go. Just leave me here to deal with the car. I'm going to call you a cab to take you to the train station. And from there it's only a 40 minute journey to Waterloo. You'll be fine."

She had rushed through her words and determinedly stared at her dog whilst uttering them. She was not going to break down in front of him - she had that much dignity left. But when no answer came once more, she searched his eyes for confirmation that she was doing the right thing.

Clara could tell that a war was raging behind his brow. What she didn't know was which side would win. The one that desperately wanted to reach London _right fucking now_ and at any cost, or the one that wanted her to elaborate on her previous aborted speech regarding her guilt.

It was his turn to sigh heavily and drop his gaze. _Guess I know which side won, then._ Although Clara didn't know why that realisation saddened her. He was doing what she wanted, right? It was for the best.

 

The cab was there ten minutes later. It took Clara another ten minutes to find the courage to call for a tow. By the time the yellow truck arrived, the rain had stopped and the sun had resolutely set behind the horizon. Hours later, when she was finally lying down in her own bed, she allowed herself to mourn for something that had probably hardly been there in the first place and almost convinced herself it was indeed all for the best. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update! Thanks to all the people who didn't give up on this story. Rest assured that the following installments will come a lot sooner. Especially since I'm leaving this chapter on such a sad note...


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

Monday morning, 8 o'clock. Malcolm couldn't believe that he had been standing on a windy cliff wondering if he would ever step in his office again a mere couple of weeks ago. And feeling weirdly torn about that realisation. Now that he was back in Downing Street and starting to experience the effects of not having slept for 24 hours, he came to re-evaluate his moment of self doubt. Feeling torn shouldn't have been a cause for worry. No. The fact that he had missed this place, even for a second, _was_ the major concern.

Sure, he had expected things to have gone hay-fucking _-_ wire in his absence. He just hadn't imagined that almost everyone involved in government would have started dancing to what he liked to call the tune of the headless chickens. Hell, the Irish could have invaded the country without anyone noticing. Maybe _that's_ what had happened. It would explain a lot.

Jamie had done his best, of course. Malcolm knew that he had. But really - what the _fuck_ went wrong? What had the world turned into? The place was a mess! Health had dumped all its shit on the other departments, the Treasury had let out that they were planning huge cuts in the next few months, Transports wanted to triple the number of speed cameras on the motorways, and don't let him start on fucking DoSAC. Jesus Christ! They made the Green party look like a very real and promising alternative.

He knew who to blame for all this. And boy, did that feel good – focusing his anger on one single person. One very deserving person. _Nicholson_. That fucking Oxbridge backstabbing pompous twat. Getting rid of him would be difficult and time consuming. But Malcolm knew he would take disquieting pleasure in it - he would make it last for as long as he could bare it. Just for the sheer pleasure of watching the gradual realisation that he had lost his battle against him settle in his eyes.

Because no one could replace him. No one could sit in his chair. _No one._

For now, though, he needed to set up a list of priorities. And making sure the Department of Sod All and Cack didn't fuck up the Special Needs Bill was the first one. Off to the new PFI Building he went. Four ministers in one place. If that wasn't Shangri fucking-la then he'd eat his pants.

On that subject, his pants thankfully still fit. But he couldn't say the same for the rest of his clothes. He had enlisted the help of his faithful Personal Assistant, Sam, last night, when he had realised - standing like a fool in his bedroom in front of his mirror - that his two-week stint in psychological gaol had had the effect of a heroine diet.

Malcolm didn't own a set of scales, but he was pretty sure he'd lost close to two stones. Too bad he didn't have that much extra weight to spare. The new-found absence of the slightly protruding gut he had been carrying could be considered as nice, perhaps. But the fact that he now looked like a fucking kid trying on his father's clothes wasn't. It was bad. Very bad.

The suit jackets and shirts would be okay for now – he hadn't exactly shrunk at the shoulders. The arms actually felt a bit tighter. Probably all that swimming he had done. On the other hand, he couldn't exactly go to the office with his trousers around his ankles. Simply tightening his belt made him look like he was wearing fucking nappies. This new appearance didn't project respect and confidence. _This was a nightmare._

Malcolm had hesitated calling someone else for help with this, but... No. She probably wasn't even back yet, and he didn't have time to focus on his horrible, gut wrenching, god awful guilt at the moment. Not yet. But he would. Oh, yes... He would.

When he had opened his door at eleven to find Sam behind it, they had both frozen. His PA's eyes had filled, and she had given him an unexpected yet fierce hug. After quickly disengaging from his grasp and wiping her tear stained cheeks, she proceeded to punch his arm. Hard.

“Ow!” Malcolm exclaimed, taken aback.

“You deserve it, for all you've put me through these past weeks. I was so worried!”

“Sorry.”

“Idiot.” A beat. “You owe me _such_ a raise for this.”

His no-nonsense PA was back and he laughed, nodding.

Sam had proven essential to his return. Of course she had. Managing to get two pairs of his trousers refitted by his tailor before 8AM. Then finding him the address of a good barber who made him look human again. Once his beard and woolly hair had gone, he had realised how scary he actually looked. He hadn't just lost weight around his stomach. He looked emaciated. Unsafe. Dangerously so when he lowered his brow in a scowl. _Good, very good._

 

 

Malcolm gradually came to realise during the day that he felt strangely vindictive towards Hugh Abbott and his team. And yes, okay, particularly towards that fucking insufferable tosser Reeder. What he didn't know was whether his attitude towards the DoSAC people had worsened now that he knew they had been driving Clara up the wall in his absence.

 _Clara_. Where was she? Had she arrived home safe? Was her car working? Was she at work? Here somewhere in the building, even? Should he call? Did she hate him for having abandoned her last night?

He had to stop thinking about her.

Once he had made sure DoSAC saw the correct expert for the Super Schools Bill, he received a call from Jamie. That made him jump, even now. He had spent the day looking over his shoulder and expecting bad news, despite his colleague's somewhat reassuring call that very morning to let him now that he was safe to go back to work.

Malcolm quickly took relative cover in the staircase – relative because that stupid piece of architectural shitty wonder was echoey as hell.

“Anything new, Jamie?” he promptly asked.

“Some good, and some not so good.”

“Start with the not so good.”

“It might take a while to see the end of this,” the younger Scot rushed in to say.

“I won't be cleared anytime soon?” Malcolm bemoaned.

“Well, not exactly.”

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“What I mean is that the Met are looking into a new line of inquiry but they haven't dropped all charges against you yet, according to Sarah.”

“What new line of inquiry?” Malcolm asked, “They found something else?”

“Catherine Hadley was in the log. She was in Downing Street at a time you or Sam weren't there. A time she could have easily slipped into your office and done whatever the fuck she wanted with your computer.”

“When?”

“On the morning of the 24th of December.”

“Christmas Eve,” Malcolm added unnecessarily, “I only got there late, it was snowing. I wasn't even supposed to come to the office that day,” he remembered.

Malcolm then stopped on the last step, having reached the end of the staircase.

“But wait, that doesn't make any fucking sense, that's the day I deleted Hewitt!”

“Precisely,” supplied Jamie. “Look, it's all my fault, I didn't think to check the logs _before_ the 24 th. I only checked the dates _after_.”

“It's not your fault,” pressed Malcolm forcefully, tired of hearing that sentence coming from all the people he held dear.

He scratched his scalp energetically with his free hand to force himself to focus, missing the longer hair that used to be there. _Think._ He needed to think. This new development was distracting him, and he didn't have time to rehash everything with Jamie at the moment, he had too much to do.

“Call me back if you learn anything new,” he finally uttered.

“Will do, Malc.”

“And Jamie? Thanks. I wouldn't be there if it wasn't for you.”

“You better not make me fucking regret it, big man. Go and bollock some more people, I can't be the only one doing all the grunt work.”

Malcolm smiled and hung up. His mood quickly evaporated when he thought some more about what his colleague had said. If this new element proved conclusive, it meant that Catherine Hadley - possibly aided by her sister and Hewitt - had acted _before_ the press registry deletion. Which meant that it had never been the triggering event. He had been completely wrong.

He sighed, and forced himself to think about something else. Raising his head towards the high ceiling, he managed to make out a few faces he recognised up there.

“Get back to work, all of you!” he shouted, feeling infinitely better.

 

 

Friday evening, seven o'clock. Clara had barely slept, this past week. When she wasn't killing herself at work over the Special Needs Bill, she found herself wondering whether the last two weeks had been a bad dream. To say that she was confused was putting it mildly, hence the twisting and turning over the mattress at night that proved as resting as pondering where the _hell_ she would find enough money to have her car fixed.

To make matters worse, she couldn't even rely on the soothing presence of her dog at the moment. As it turned out, the last weeks had clearly _not_ been a dream for him, and founding himself scooped up in her tiny flat all day long after having experienced freedom in its purest form proved impossible for the poor animal. So off to Martha he had gone. Clara had felt bad about asking her to take him back so soon, but she did have a garden - as tiny as it was - and Mickey would be with him all day, given that he worked from home.

She wasn't even excited about the coming weekend, since she knew that the whole circus would start once more on Monday. Still, at least she had been able to secretly cheer over a small victory today, when Hugh Abbot had quite simply signed the proverbial end of his career by lying – _for the second time_ \- in front of a Select Committee. Her mirth had to be discreet, though, because they were supposedly on the same boat with that Bill, and both their departments had to support it. However _stupid_ and _pointless_ it was.

Clara longed for the day when she wouldn't have to spend half her time with DoSAC people. Namely, when the Bill actually passed. She didn't mind having to go to their new building. It was quite nice, after all. What she minded was the fact that it housed four different departments. Which meant that she had four times more chances to bump into Malcolm when she went there. It hadn't happened yet, but she had been very careful. And it wasn't that she _didn't_ want to see him – because she did, oh, she did – it was that she had no idea what she would actually tell him if they found themselves face to face. Smile? Ask him how he was? Wishing him a nice day as though she hadn't basically planned to run away with him and change her whole life for him a few days before? As though he hadn't unexpectedly become the most important aspect of her life? As though watching him exit her broken car on Sunday hadn't broken her very soul in the process?

Maybe she was overreacting. _Maybe_.

After all, she had known him for what, two months? So they'd slept together a handful of times, so what? That didn't mean they were now supposed to barely know how to go about their days without thinking about the other. Even if it were true in her case.

As it were, Clara hadn't been able to _completely_ escape his presence during the week. She had managed to only catch glimpses of him from afar, which was a good thing - because he had looked both terrible and wonderful at the same time. Terrible because his new, fiercely sharp profile scared her more than she would like to admit. Yet wonderful because she couldn't help but admire his resilience and rejoice in his success at finding his way back here.

She wasn't proud of her head-in-the-sand-and-hopes-he-disappears reaction. This wasn't like her. She was used to face her problems straight on. She was a grown woman with wit and pluck at the ready. She didn't let a mere _bloke_ reduce her to this state.

Similarly, Clara chose to believe that her refusal to answer Jamie's calls had been caused by her too hectic schedule. She wasn't acting out of childish stubbornness. No way. She wasn't sulking or hoping the man would understand that she wanted to be left alone and not talk about it. Or, even worse, _him_.

There she was again – couldn't even pronounce his name in her own head. How ridiculous was that?What next? She would _swoon_ next time he brushed past her? Pen him a heartfelt letter she never would find the courage to send him?

No. This was Friday night. She would stop thinking about work and him. She would order a pizza, open a bottle of red, and fall asleep watching the _least_ romantic film she could find.

Unfortunately, her plans promptly went out the window when someone knocked. Knowing instinctively that this wouldn't be her neighbour asking to borrow her rolling pin, she still opened the door, wincing internally.

Finding _him_ on the other side, her resolutions went out the same way as her plans, and she lasted all of four seconds before launching herself at him.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 ****She didn't even have to think about it. Some part of her took control. The part that had scarcely allowed her to function this past week. The part that had kept her awake, night after night. The part that wouldn't let her forget how good it had been between them and how well they fit.

This was certainly still true now, as she dragged a very eager Malcolm inside her flat. Lips locked in a hard fought battle, eyes closed against the superfluous light, hands alternatively stroking and pressing and guiding, they slowly made their way to her bed, which thankfully wasn't very far. Clothes were discarded as quickly as humanly possible. Yes, she wanted him inside her. But first and foremost she wanted to feel the warmth of his skin against hers and savour the very real brunt of his weight. Slide her fingers through his shorn locks. Take a deep breath, then lose herself in the pool of his eyes.

She smiled, he smiled, and that's all it took.

Locking her ankles high on his back to relish every last inch of him, Clara found her way back to his mouth. Fighting for dominance over his tongue, she bit his lower lip. Malcolm retaliated by raising his hips _that_ extra bit, which forced his pelvis to rub against _that_ spot. She moaned loudly then grinned.

This wasn't just about pleasure and self-gratification. No, what she felt above all was unbridled joy. Clara laughed again when Malcolm dragged his teeth across her neck to leave his mark. He raised his eyes to hers, feeling her chuckle reverberate against her skin. Puzzled was perhaps the wrong word to describe his expression – after all, he hadn't exactly stopped moving inside her – yet there was renewed wonder in his grey orbs when she beamed once more after a particularly deep thrust. When he did it again and earned the same result, he simply shook his head and joined in her mirth with a grin of his own. Clara wasn't sure what was happening to her – she just couldn't stop her happiness from showing.

Maybe she'd just been taking sex a bit too seriously until then. Because she was quite certain it had never felt like that. Carefree, joyful and liberating. And from her lover's mystified expression, it was clear that the same held true for him. Oh, well. Nobody said this was supposed to be a grim affair, after all. Raising her lips to his ear, she let him know exactly how good he made her feel before playfully biting his earlobe. He groaned, and it was his turn to laugh warmly. Clara felt his hands slide to her waist. Then to her surprise, shriek included, he quickly switched their positions on the mattress and she found herself on top.

“Tired already?” she cheekily asked.

“Don't tell me a control freak like you doesn't like to be on top?” he replied.

“ _Au contraire, mon cher_ ,” she said, settling firmly against him.

His answering grunt and hiss told her that she should speak French to him more often.

 

Finding herself on the other side of her bed afterwards, Clara realised as she was getting her breath back that she might try sleeping that way, for once. The ceiling looked more pleasing from that angle, somehow. But maybe that was due to her general mood. Blood was still noisily rushing to her ears and she couldn't hear or feel Malcolm moving about. She hoped that she hadn't utterly tired him out. That certainly wouldn't do, she thought, smiling smugly. Yet, if she were completely honest, she wouldn't mind languidly sliding towards him and fall asleep.

Picture her surprise when she found Malcolm's face looming above her, wide awake and expectant.

“So, are we going then?” he asked.

“Going? Going where?” she voiced out, rolling on her side feebly. Her head was still spinning.

“I owe you dinner, don't I?”

“Dinner?” This was a very slow reboot indeed.

“Yes, dinner! At a posh place, remember?” Malcolm pressed hurriedly, picking up his clothes, “We probably won't get a table at the River Café at this hour, but we can try other places.”

Clara could finally see him from the right side up. He was serious.

“We don't need to go out. I was actually planning on ordering a pizza before you showed up.”

“But I said I would,” he pointed out, already mostly dressed. Impressive speed.

She sat up, alerted by his tone. He wasn't just serious – he was adamant. What was going on?

“Malcolm, wait,” she started, signalling with her hands that he had to slow down. “You don't _need_ to take me out. I'm fine with staying in. And I really don't feel like putting on some fancy clothes right now. It's Friday.”

She could tell that he didn't completely buy her speech – as genuine as it was. What made him think that he somehow _owed_ it to her to take her to some poncy restaurant? Did he believe that it was what she expected from him? That he had to do the whole strained date-night thing? She hated that! But then, perhaps that's how the women he usually dated behaved around him. Clara shuddered at the thought – just imagining him with that kind of woman (any woman, really, if she was honest) - unnerved her to the highest degree.

“Really, Malcolm. I just feel like staying in tonight. With you, if possible,” she added, smiling.

He was frowning at her still, but at least he'd stopped tucking in his shirt.

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. And if that bothers you so much, why don't we make a reservation for another day? When we're less tired? How about after that stupid Education Bill is passed, yeah?”

Malcolm nodded, finally convinced.

“Yeah, good idea, let's do that.”

Now that she had managed to convince him not to go out, he looked rather lost. Lowering his shoulders, he looked around her room and started ruffling hair that was no longer there.

“I'm going to miss that hair,” Clara pouted, looking up at him.

He stopped his ministrations and she was sure that she had made him blush.

“Yeah?”

“Mm-mmh,” she confirmed, standing up and reaching him in a few steps.

“The beard I can live without, thought it suited you,” she said, sliding her hands over his not quite smooth cheeks given the hour.

“But that hair... It was glorious, that hair,” she reminisced.

“It'll grow back.”

“It better.”

He lowered his eyes then quickly raised them up again – she was still naked and she didn't mind.

“Pizza, then?” he supplied, clearly yearning for something to do.

Clara wouldn't lower her hands, which were still gently cupping his face, her thumbs vainly trying to smooth over the fatigue-induced circles around his eyes.

“Yes I can order it and you won't have to leave.”

She hoped she wasn't too forward. But then, she had started to realise that Malcolm didn't exactly need to be handled with kid gloves.

“I don't mind going out if it's quicker, I need to move my car anyway,” he shrugged.

Her neighbourhood was usually fine, but she certainly wouldn't choose to park a £100,000 car outside. Especially on a Friday night during pub crawl hour.

“You didn't plan this at all, did you?” Clara asked, smiling secretly and finally deciding on putting on some clothes – she had tortured him enough.

“To be honest, I thought you'd throw me the fuck out,” he answered, looking at his bare feet.

“Why did you think that?”

“Well, I've been a fucking arsehole to you. I deserved a good kick in the balls.”

Clara was in the process of finding a comfortable pair of jeans. It was a good thing that her back was turned, or Malcolm would have seen her eyes widening in shock. She swallowed reflexively and took her time finding what she was looking for in her drawer to come up with a suitable answer. For the life of her, she hadn't expected him to have any qualms about what he had done. He'd been completely vindicated in his choice to leave her in the car. And yet, a small part of her glowed. The same small part that had taken control when he had arrived this evening.

“You did what you had to do, I understand that,” she settled on replying, calmly.

“Doesn't mean I had to be such an ungrateful prick about it,” he mumbled.

Clara didn't say anything back while she dressed – it wouldn't hurt if he thought that yes, she might have felt a little stung.

“There's a good curry place on Hampton Street if you want to have that instead. I have beers in the fridge,” she suggested before turning back towards him. From his small smile, she could tell that the idea appealed to him. Trust Malcolm Tucker to never refuse a good curry.

“Sounds good. I saw an underground car park a bit further on Walworth. I'll pick up dinner on the way back.”

Malcolm walked to the sitting room and started looking in every corner.

“Where's your dog? Do you want me to walk him or something?”

“He's staying at my friend Martha at the moment.”

“Oh.” He was genuinely disappointed not to see him.

“I think he had a hard time readjusting to London,” she added, wondering if she was only talking about the Doctor.

“Right.”

Clara thought that he was almost about to apologise. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. In the end, he simply rolled his shoulders, tied on his shoes and put on his jacket. But the lingering kiss he gave her before heading out spelled out his contrition.

Just as she was about to get cutlery from the kitchen, her mobile rang. _Jamie._ She had no more excuses for ducking his calls. And she didn't mind talking to him – not anymore.

“Hi, Jamie.”

“Finally! I'd started thinking you were fucking avoiding me, lass.”

“Sorry about that, I was just busy. But I'm good now. How are you?”

“Jesus, you sound chipper. I dread to think why.”

“What news have you got for me?” she asked, avoiding his comment. Did she really sound chipper?

“I just thought you wanted to know how everything was going. But I can understand if you're tired of hearing me banging the fuck on about this subject. Especially since, well... I'm guessing Malcolm hasn't been very....

“Jamie...” she tried to cut in, but he was on one of his usual rolls.

“... I know the git can be a bigger arsehole than usual when he is focused on his work, but I'm sure he'll come round – it's _you_ after all – and he's not fucking blind. I'll even have a wee talk with him on Monday if you want, suggest flowers or something. What kind of flowers do you like? Do you even _like_ flowers? Or maybe a restaurant. Would you like...”

“Jamie!”

“What?”

“Thanks, but that won't be necessary,” she replied, trying very hard not to laugh.

“Oh. Okay. But wait, why would..” A beat, then a guffaw. “I get it. He came by, didn't he? That sleeky bugger.”

“Yeah, he came by.”

“Don't tell me he's still there? Jesus fuck, don't answer that. I don't want to know. And don't tell him I called, for God's sake.”

“Sure, Jamie. Have a lovely weekend,” she told him warmly.

“Oh, and just so we're clear, don't you ever fucking screen my calls again, you hear? I could have been calling you about work.”

“If you had been, then you would have eventually found another way to reach me, I'm sure.”

“Don't you fucking know it. Right, off I go. You have a nice relaxing weekend as well. Just don't _ever_ tell me about it.”

“Cheers,” she replied before ending the call with a smile on her lips.

Clara only then realised that he hadn't told her anything about the inquiry. Surely, Malcolm would have told her if anything was bad.

When he came back, he was carrying a small holdall in addition to the take-out curry. At her raised eyebrow he flustered slightly and explained he'd picked up the change of clothes he always kept in his boot because he didn't want to risk staining the only pair of trousers that fitted at the moment. She sniggered discreetly at how uncomfortable he looked – they were past fearing being too presumptuous around each others as far as she was concerned. And she liked him better in jeans, anyway.

It wasn't until much later that they started talking about his case. They had put on the ten o'clock news on mute, and Malcolm was sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa where she was laying, empty containers and bottles of lager still scattered around them. Clara felt pleasantly full and sleepy. She reached out to smooth his hair from her higher vantage point and he didn't complain. On the contrary, she was quite sure she heard a purring sound.

“Are you going to tell me again that it's too short?” he muttered, completely oblivious to the Shadow Minister complaining silently on TV.

“I know why you had it cut, it looks more professional like this. More... Malcolm _fucking_ Tucker if you catch my drift.”

“Do you know, my middle name _actually_ starts with an F? What a fucking joke.”

“Really, what is it?”

“Finn. My mam wanted Fionnlagh, but that would have been over-stressing the Scottish Gaelic thing a wee bit.”

“Just a wee bit, yeah,” she agreed with an easy smile. “At least you _have_ a second name. My parents were just too lazy with me. I'm plain Clara Oswald.”

“Plain Clara Oswald sounds fucking lovely.”

She gripped his hair a bit tighter.

“But anyway, that haircut, it's just such a waste,” she sighed, giving his head one last pat, “you have beautiful hair.”

“It's going grey.”

“I don't care. Grey suits you,” she replied.

He turned towards her at her words, frowning

“Trust me, it does.”

“Well, the good news is, you might get to admire it going greyer and greyer _outside_ a prison cell rather than _inside_.”

Clara sat up against the armrest, waiting for him to elaborate.

“It's not official yet, but Mike and Sarah reckon that since the solicitor's main priority is to save the Crown Prosecution Services from unwarranted expenses in pursuing cases where they might not secure a conviction, the charges should be dropped soon.”

“And that's good, right?” she couldn't help asking, since his tone was unreadable.

“Of course it's good, I can't fucking wait!”

“But?” she prompted.

“But it might take a while until they have enough on Catherine Hadley, her sister, and Hewitt. They have to look at all the angles. And they seem more interested in knowing _how_ they got the pictures in the first place rather than _why_ they put them in my computer to incriminate me. Which I can understand, but that still fucking sucks.”

“I'm sure you'll get answers one day.”

“Maybe,” he replied, non-plussed.

Clara sighed audibly then slid from the sofa to come and sit next to him. When he didn't move, she took the first step and wound her arms around him, tightly.

“So it's over, then,” she said in a small voice against his shirt.

Malcolm exhaled and hugged her tighter against him.

“Yeah, it's really over,” he acquiesced, never commenting on the few warm tears he started feeling rolling down the back of his neck a few minutes later when he still hadn't let her go.

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

Blue dawn was barely filtering through her blinds. A noise outside must have woken her and the man shifting and groaning beside her. Well, more like _beneath_ her. Clara was practically draped over him. Given that the few times they had slept together had been in a tiny bed, perhaps they had unconsciously gravitated towards the other during the night, fearing they would somehow lack room on her bigger mattress. Whatever the reason, she didn't mind – there were worse ways to wake up than pressed against the warm body of Malcolm Tucker, despite his angular features and pointy bones.

Clara burrowed against him, hoping sleep would welcome her once more. It was Saturday, she was allowed a few more hours. She hoped her companion thought the same. When she felt his arm close around her protectively she smiled, sighed, and was soon back in dreamland.

The next time she woke up, Malcolm was moving more purposefully against her.

“Don't tell me you have to go to the office?” she grumbled, knowing this was a very real possibility after all.

“Going to the office when you're right there next to me all warm and naked? Are you joking?” he asked, sounding far too awake, “I would be fucking mad.”

“Speaking of...” she pointed out, slowly opening her eyes and curling up against his front until she could feel him. All of him.

They took things much slower this time – it was nice to be able to make it last as long as possible, something they hadn't been able to do much until now, too focussed on reaching their peaks as pleasure crashed over them like a tidal wave. It was more like a languid electrical current, this morning – slow coming, but just as swift. Their kisses were unhurried and easy. As though they'd been lovers for years instead of days.

In the end, his clever (very clever) fingers took her there earlier than she had expected and he was quick to follow with a relieved and prolonged groan against her neck. Clara kept him where he was for a while, her hands stroking his shoulders and back. When he rolled over she went with him and pressed her forehead to his.

“So what do you want to do, today?”

A pointed look in the direction of her barely covered self. She sniggered unashamedly.

“I mean, apart from what you just _did_.”

Malcolm shrugged, his eyes not leaving her. He clearly didn't feel like leaving the bed anytime soon, that was for sure.

“You don't have to go to Number 10, then?” she asked, surprised.

“I don't feel like it after this fucking never-ending week,” he admitted. “And I can't do anything about the sodding Super School Bill until the Select Committee gives its verdict on Wednesday.”

Not wanting to have their morning spoiled by one Hugh Abbott, Clara quickly changed tracks.

“I'll have to move at some point. The fridge's empty and you drunk all my beer.”

“You helped,” he retorted, his right hand finding its way to her lower back.

“What about your dog?” he added a little while later.

“My dog?”

“Yeah, aren't you going to get him for the weekend or something?”

“You're really missing him,” she marvelled, smiling.

Malcolm frowned, as though he was about to rebuff her, then pulled her closer.

“So what if I am?”

“It doesn't matter,” she sighed. “I can't ask Mickey to drive him back here again. And he's usually busy on weekends with work.”

“You've lost me, love.”

Clara pinked up at his words – it was the first time he called her that. And even though she knew it wasn't necessarily an actual term of endearment, it still made her heart beat faster.

“I left him at my friend Martha's. She's a Health junior advisor, you might have come across her – Martha Jones. But her boyfriend Mickey is the one who's mostly taking care of the Doctor since he works from home. I had him pick my dog up on Tuesday. I can't ask him to drive all the way from Kidbrooke on a Saturday.”

“Why would he be the one making the journey?”

“Because my car's still in the shop and I can't ride the train with a dog.”

“Oh.” A guilty expression. A pause. “What about my car?”

“What about it?”

“We can go and pick him up if you want. I don't mind.”

“My dog.” A nod. “In your car.” Another nod. “Your very expensive, very leather-seats car.”

“Sure, why not? It's just a car.”

He was completely serious. As serious as he had been the previous evening about them going to the restaurant.

“But we'd have to drive him back there on Sunday, that seems to be a bit of a waste, even if I do miss him as well,” she reasoned. “I'm pretty sure he's not going to be 'cured' of his dislike of imposed restrictions in my flat after only a couple of days with access to a garden on the other side of London. A tiny garden, as it is.”

“ _I_ have a garden,” he announced, “Relatively big. Away from the road. With high hedges on every side.”

Clara raised her head to look at him more closely.

“What are you saying?” she asked, not wanting to misunderstand him.

“I'm saying if it's extra space and outside air your dog needs, I can provide that. And he'd be closer to you than in bloody Kidbrooke.”

“But what are you going to do with him all day? You're not going to let him roam freely in your house, right?” Clara was trying to cover all possibilities. Simply to show him that he was being unreasonable and hadn't thought this through.

“Why not?” he repeated plainly. “And he could go in the garden as he pleases. I could fit out one of those dog-flap thing on the back door. You know, one that activates when the dog gets near. You put a chip in their collar or something. I think I saw an infomercial at fuck me o'clock in the morning for that.”

“You've really taken time to think about it, haven't you?” she realised.

Malcolm raised his head to mirror her position on the bed, his hand supporting his chin.

“I was thinking about getting a dog, actually.” Raised eyebrows from her. “I know! I guess your enforced dog sitting rubbed off on me.”

Clara smiled, aware that it wouldn't be necessary to prove him wrong after all. Well, not yet anyway.

“It's a deal, then,” she voiced out, settling her body over his once more. “We'll go and get the Doctor then head to your place.”

With legs on either side of him and her hands casually sliding to his abdomen and beyond, she added one last thing.

“Oh, and you were right about something else: I do like being on top.”

 

When they finally managed to exit her flat later that morning, Clara had armed herself with several old blankets to protect Malcolm's leather seats from her dog. When he commented on her slightly over the top cautiousness, she simply glared. Still, she had accepted his offer to carry her bag which held – according to him – the Doctor's things. He wasn't to know that all his stuff was already at Martha's and that her bag held a change of clothes and some toiletries in case she ended up staying at his place. After all, there was no reason why she wouldn't be allowed to behave sneakily as well.

The drive took less time than she had expected – even though she got them lost twice. She had called Martha before leaving to warn her of their arrival. The young Health advisor had sounded surprised at her insistence that yes, she had found a friend to drive her, and no, they wouldn't be staying for lunch. When she had asked whether she knew that particular friend, Clara had quickly wrapped up the call, evading her question.

Once they had arrived, Clara turned towards Malcolm and told him that he didn't have to go in with her. He merely shrugged, and she took his answer as acquiescence. Martha must have been looking out the window because the door opened before she even had the time to ring.

“Doctor, back!” her friend yelled amidst the loud barking of the border collie.

He had clearly smelled or heard Clara coming and couldn't resist launching himself excitedly at her as soon as the door was ajar. She laughed heartily, her dog giving her hands warm licks and happy sniffs as she tried to pet him unsuccessfully. Shortly though, the Doctor seemed to pick up another scent, and rushed between her legs.

“Traitor,” she whispered, but fondly, when she turned to see who had captivated her dog's attention.

Malcolm had apparently not agreed to remain in the car, and was currently kneeling in the grass, playfully wrestling with her pet.

“Clara, is that _really_ Malcolm Tucker playing with your dog? Wearing _jeans_? That can't be right, surely.”

“How much of a bribe do you want not to repeat what you've seen to anyone?” she replied, only half joking.

 

 

As he had expected, the mutt was perfectly well behaved and no problem at all in the car. Malcolm wasn't sure why Clara had been so nervous about the whole thing. He absolutely loved his car – which was a good thing, given its eye boggling price – but that didn't mean it should be considered as a collection piece that could only be gazed at from a distance. Leather seats or no leather seats, it was still _just a fucking car._

Once home, he showed Clara and her dog around, since the last (and only) time she had been there the garden had been bathed in darkness. The black and white dog seemed happy enough with his bigger space, and the January air was warm enough that day to keep the glass door opened to allow him to come in and out at ease.

After a light lunch, they both wordlessly agreed to work for a bit, as though they were used to spend all their weekends together. Clara with her laptop on a sofa, him on his phone in the front room. Malcolm had consciously omitted to answer any call, email or text until then, and they had piled up quite alarmingly. Yet he felt hard-pressed to deal with any but the most urgent ones. Well, the ones he knew were _actually_ urgent, since everything that was sent to him was always 'rush' and 'super important' and 'extra sensitive'. He was slowly coming up with a strategy to get Nicholson off his (and his party's) back once and for all, but he knew that he had to bide his time and not precipitate anything.

When he finally emerged from the room to check how Clara was faring, he expected her to be either still working or bored and wishing to leave. As it turned out, she had made herself so comfortable on his couch that she had promptly fallen asleep at one point, her laptop discarded on the coffee table and her socked feet against the armrest. Malcolm smiled, then quickly checked himself.

_Don't get used to this._

Grumbling at the voice of reason inside his head, he summoned it to kindly _fuck off_ and put a warm blanket over the young woman's still form. He then checked that the mutt was fine and wrote Clara a quick note before heading out.

The Cricklewood Lane B&Q was strangely deserted for a Saturday afternoon. But Malcolm guessed that few people had DIY projects in the middle of bloody January. He picked up some food on the way back so that he wouldn't have to go out the next day and managed to be home less than two hours after he had left. Clara wasn't sleeping anymore, although he could tell that she hadn't been awake long. Wisely, he chose not to comment on her disarrayed state and accepted her offer to make tea.

“So what have you been up to?” she asked, leaning against the kitchen counter and eyeing the brimming plastic bags he had placed against the back door.

“You'll see,” he replied, keeping his cards close to his chest.

Clara raised an eyebrow but didn't press him.

“Your dog seems okay with his new surroundings,” he noted.

Said dog was currently sniffing the various pieces of furniture. Malcolm remembered that he had behaved similarly in Brightstone – he would probably soon pick a favourite spot somewhere to lie down.

“He is. And he's glad to see you, I can tell.”

Malcolm thought that she was somehow startled by this realisation. Misreading her reaction, he quickly added, “Do you want me to drive you home? I don't mind keeping your dog for a few days, as I said, but if you're not comfortable with...”

“No!” she cut in, loudly.

Then, more softly, “That's fine, I'm not in a hurry to leave. I mean, if you're not fed up with having me around or...”

“Of course not!”

“...need the place to yourself to work or whatever or...”

“Stay as long as you want. Fuck, stay the whole weekend.”

Silence. That might have been a bit too forward. God, did he completely fuck...

“Okay.” Simple as that. Her expression open and confident.

“Right.”

_Maybe not, then._

 

They made dinner together, a record of Sonny Rollins playing in the background, and all the while Malcolm kept wondering where they stood exactly. What Clara expected of him, now. Were they together _together_? A proper couple? With serious intentions and even more serious decisions to make? He knew he had reached the age where those decisions were made. On life, who he was living it with if he was lucky, and stuff. But that didn't make it any less bloody terrifying.

No need to feel like such a pansy about it, and he knew that it was probably best if they didn't put an actual label on things right now, but he wondered how Clara felt. And yes, okay, he had been in enough relationships to realise that what they had was strong – as recent as it was. For fuck's sake, she had stayed with him even when he was suspected of being a horrible monster. Not only that, she had believed in him and defended him when he had felt like a fucking piece of worthless shite. Yet there was still that niggling voice at the back of his head warning him that this was all too good to be true. A beautiful, smart young lass who put up with him and his awful behaviour and inhumanely demanding job. Something had to give.

Malcolm was pretty sure that there was nothing wrong or off about her – she was too genuine and honest for that. Nothing _big_ anyway. Sure, she might have secrets she wasn't comfortable sharing. Not yet, anyway. He wasn't a vain man – not when it really mattered, at least – and he didn't need anyone to stroke his fucking ego. And yet... Jesus Christ, he wasn't blind. He was 48. She was 29. It was easy to do the maths. Then start to worry.

“You're thinking too much,” Clara said, stopping the endless loop of self-doubt and wonder that circled around his mind.

They had finished eating, the last record was spinning idly on his turntable, and he hadn't even noticed. He didn't remember setting his empty plate on the coffee table either.

“Sorry,” he said, stupidly.

_Maybe you should start showing your appreciation by at least not fucking ignoring her when she was there._

“Are you okay?”

He gave a start. Shouldn't he be the one asking that question? But then all thoughts or answers left him when she primly climbed onto his lap.

“Do you remember the night I spent here? Sleeping on this very sofa?” she quizzed, her hands gently framing his face.

“Sure.”

“I woke up at one point. And I started wondering whether I could go upstairs to you. Whether I _should_.”

“I wouldn't have slammed the door in your face,” he supplied as his arms encircled her, the brashness of his words softened by his gesture.

“I'm not sure what stopped me, exactly,” she confessed, as the distance between their bodies was slowly but surely erased.

Malcolm felt a rush of very welcome self-satisfaction flow through him. So he hadn't been the only one hoping for something more that night, then. Emboldened by that discovery, he pressed her closer and let his fingers roam against her spine.

“And do you know what's stopping me now?” she whispered in his ear, “Absolutely nothing.”

The rasp of her teeth against his neck and her warm, hurried, breath.

“So take me to your bed, Malcolm Tucker.”

And so he did.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

Clara was woken by another sound on Sunday morning. But this time, there wasn't a Malcolm Tucker body shape next to her or beneath her. There was no Malcolm Tucker nothing, as the cold sheets and empty bed made glaringly obvious. Grumbling, she turned over. Just as she was contemplating the next hour of uninterrupted sleep, another noise caught her attention. She pricked up her ears and tried to focus. The sound came from downstairs, that was for sure – a distant yet rhythmic banging and a droning baritone voice.

Malcolm wasn't far, then. But what was he doing? Who was he speaking to? Something unexpected from work? On a Sunday morning? Clara sighed and tried to convince herself that she shouldn't be disappointed. After all, they had managed to escape work for more than 24 hours, now. And quite wonderfully so, she might add. The memory of the previous night still gave her tingles. She was pretty sure that Malcolm had been trying to prove something – whether it was to him or to her remained a mystery. All she could say was that _this_ hadn't been a disappointment. The exact opposite, in fact. And if Malcolm Tucker wanted to prove to the world one more time that he knew how to please a woman and had the stamina of a much younger man to do so, then she certainly wouldn't complain. Hell, she wouldn't mind if he were to prove it on a regular basis.

Although maybe not every night, she conceded as she made her way downstairs, muscles she had no idea existed protesting all the way. Clara had been tempted to investigate her lover's disappearance in the nude, hoping her body would entice him to stop whatever he was doing and come back to bed, but something had to be said about the temperature once she left the warm quilt behind her – it was bloody freezing. Suggestiveness be damned, she put on a heavy cotton sweater Malcolm probably wore to lounge around the house and her panties – her only article of clothing that had made its way upstairs last night.

The spectacle that awaited her was unexpected to say the least. Creeping as silently as she could to the kitchen where the strange banging sound still came from, she found Malcolm crouching on the floor by the back door with a hammer drill in his hands, white dust in his hair and her dog sitting patiently next to him.

“Now pay attention, mutt. That's where you don't want to fuck up. Many idiots forget that, but there's actually only one correct way to drill – clockwise, always clockwise. Remember that.”

Malcolm wasn't on the phone for work, then. Malcolm was in the process of teaching her dog how to drill. This should worry her. So why wasn't she worried? Why was she biting her lips to stop herself from laughing out loud?

She waited tolerantly until he had finished drilling – each time he stopped, he made sure to tell the Doctor what he should look out for to avoid cracking the wood and how to choose the correct plug. Her dog was following all his movements with alert eyes, and Clara had the weird impression that he was actually understanding what the human was doing. But she certainly wasn't.

“Malcolm, what the hell are you doing?”

She tried to be as quiet as possible not to startle him, yet he still visibly jumped when he heard her.

“Oh, Clara, sorry. Must have woken you. I tried using a handsaw but the door's just too thick. So I had to drill it.”

He was babbling. The tip of his ears was red and he was eyeing her dog furtively – as though in an attempt to convey that he should stay silent. Was he afraid the Doctor would actually _tell_ on him? Confess to her what they had been doing? The idea was hilarious. _And worrisome, Clara. Don't forget worrisome._ Right.

“And why did you have to drill it in the first place?” she added, calmly, trying not to be distracted by how low Malcolm's faded and paint covered jeans rested on his hips now that he had stood up. Or how soft the old and worn white T-shirt that clung tightly to his chest looked. _Keep your hands to yourself, Oswald_.

“The dog flap.”

“The dog flap?”

“Yeah, I decided to make it myself.”

“Right.” A beat. “Why?”

“For your dog, of course.”

“No, I meant why did you feel the need to make one yourself? Why not buy one already made? Better yet – have someone else do it for you?”

“Because I can do it myself!” he asserted loudly. Defensively. As though her remarks were reproaches. They weren't.

“I want to do it myself. I don't like the idea of other people doing what I can do myself – it's stupid,” he grumbled, but more quietly.

Clara frowned, wondering why he was on the defensive over a bloody home made dog flap. She was starting to know him well enough to perceive that touching him now would be a mistake. Even if her first instinct was to reach out to him to soothe him. He wouldn't find it soothing – he would find it patronising. So she crossed her arms over her chest – mostly so as not to be tempted to initiate physical contact – and smiled reassuringly.

“Does it calm you? DIY projects over a Sunday?” she inquired.

He raised his head in surprise. Even if the rest of him was still tense, his eyes looked somehow pleased.

“Yeah,” he admitted nonchalantly, “a bit like cooking, I guess. I can only blame myself if I fuck up, and that's great.”

“Something you can control from A to Z,” she realised, nodding to herself.

“Something like that,” he conceded.

Though he seemed more approachable now, she still resisted the impulse to wipe the dust peppering his face.

“What about the electronic thing to open it?” she asked to distract herself.

“I've got it too. And the chip for his collar. It will all fit,” he declared proudly.

“Remind me never to doubt that you've thought of everything in the future.”

His ears turned crimson once more, but this time not in shame or guilt.

“It's just something that I'm used to. We didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up, so if you couldn't fix something yourself, it usually remained broken.”

Apparently, her words had unlocked some mysterious part inside him. This wasn't something he would have otherwise easily admitted to.

“My dad was hopeless at home repairs,” she said, reminiscing. “But Mr. Travis, our neighbour, was very nice. He helped out a lot around the house.”

Clara could tell that Malcolm wanted to say something about his own dad, then. But clearly, she hadn't unlocked everything inside him – there were still some aspects about his past that he didn't like to say out loud, even to her. Perhaps _especially_ to her. In any case, she could imagine how hard it must have been to be the only man at home when his father left. At fifteen.

“I'll go grab some coffee then you can tell me everything about hammer drills,” she suggested to break the tension. Malcolm nodded, relieved.

Armed with a brimming cup of freshly brewed Arabica, she sat on the floor next to the Doctor – who hadn't moved an inch. This wasn't how she had anticipated spending her Sunday morning, but then she would readily admit that it wasn't so bad. Malcolm seemed happy, her dog was definitely happy, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

So of course such tranquility had to be shattered by a ringing phone. A ringing phone that always preceded doom. Chopin's Funeral March. Several expletives later, Malcolm picked up.

“George.”

No question, no doubt in his voice – he had recognised the number. He listened for a short while, then his shoulders drooped.

“Fuck. Me. Where is he? Home? Has the police been in yet?”

Clara tensed.

"Well of course he's got to bloody call them. Am I supposed to do that for him as well? Is he fucking five?”

More one-sided conversation. Malcolm hadn't risen from the floor yet, but she could see his left hand clenching and unclenching against his thigh. His eyes closed briefly then he sighed.

“Tell him I'll be right there. Tell him to call his lawyer _then_ the police. In that order, you fucking hear? Bye.”

Silence. Grey eyes directed at her. Trepidation mixed with anger. But also a sliver of sadness.

“Home Secretary. Drove home last night and thought he hit a deer. This morning he's not so sure it was a deer. And there's a lot of blood on the front of his car.”

“Jesus!”

“Quite. I have to drive up there. Middle of fucking nowhere in Hertfordshire.”

The drive definitely wasn't the problem.

“And what will you do?”

“What do you think? What I always do – fix other people's fuck ups.”

His words and tone were harsh, but the look he gave her wasn't. Clara put down her cup and sat on her haunches to encircle him in her arms. She didn't say anything, just held his side against her chest.

“I'll drive you back,” he exhaled.

“Don't be daft, you're going in the other direction – I'll take a cab.”

“You're leaving your dog with me?”

“If it's no bother.”

“It's no bother,” he assured quickly.

“Good,” she smiled.

“Come whenever you like to see him. I might be home late, but you're welcome anytime if you miss him.”

“Thanks, I will,” she whispered against his temple.

She kissed him once before letting him go, wishing she had the words to make him understand that he didn't have to kidnap her dog to make her want to come here.

 

 

To think that he had been complaining about the mess left out in his absence last week. That had been nothing next to this. A fucking disaster. That could turn into an even bigger disaster any minute.

Malcolm had arrived shortly after the fuzz. Thankfully, the Home Sec's lawyer was already there. God, they all made his skin crawl: policemen and lawmen. He couldn't help imagining that they somehow knew about him. That his own judicial troubles were written all over his face. _Fuck that_. He couldn't look weak. He couldn't burst into tears like Baker's missus. Or start stuttering at the first question from the officers. No matter how tempting it was.

They would run tests on the blood found on the car. And Jesus Christ, there was a lot of it – Malcolm saw it for himself. Then came the excruciating wait to see if anyone had gone missing in the area – insomniac joggers, senile old ladies, drunk youths or kamikaze cyclists were the best candidates.

Malcolm couldn't wait for the answer – whatever it was. He had to get ready for the worst. Which meant getting the PM ready. Which meant getting the press ready – or blissfully unaware, in this case. In his rush to Number 10, he became fixated with the best location for the sensor's release system on the Doctor's flap. At the top? On the side?

He checked himself at a red light. _What the fuck?_ He needed to strategise and fast. Focus on resources and time and back up plans. Then back up plans for the fucking back up plans. Not bloody home made appliances. But then, maybe this was for the best... To be distracted by this rather than by the other thing from this weekend. The Clara thing. The how the _fuck_ did she manage to worm her way inside his heart so quickly thing. And the terrible realisation that his bed would be empty tonight. Although there was a good chance he wouldn't have time to go home. Thank God he'd left the mutt enough food and water to last a week and that the flap would work without the sensor for now. Hopefully, no one was planing on burgling his house through the fucking hole in his back door.

It was all hands on deck for the rest of the day and well into the next. Speeches had been written to plan for all scenarios – resignations letters as well. In the end, the Home Sec was proven to have indeed hit a deer, but the compulsory blood test he had to subject to showed that he was over the limit. Which made him _well_ over the limit on Saturday night when he had been driving. Twelve fucking units over, apparently. Hence the new safety campaign that had to be drafted and launched on the hoof on Tuesday, given that the press had gotten wind of the test results.

Fortunately, they didn't know _why_ such tests had been ordered in the first place. And thank God for that. Malcolm could already see the _Daily Mail_ front-page – 'Baker vs. Bicycle: Blood Bath and Beyond'. Which was only _slightly_ less worse than the one they had gone for – 'Baker by the Dozen'.

Jamie had gathered his minions for damage control of course, but for 24 tensed hours, they had all hummed and hawed about a possible sacking. Nicholson had been for it – of course, the ponce was all for big changes in government which would go in his favour. While he had been adamantly and vociferously against it. It had been more than a battle of will or principles. It had been the ultimate test to mark his return in Whitehall. Had he managed to convince the Prime Minister that his opinion had precedence over all others once again?

Come Wednesday morning – following another sleepless night, too many coffees and his own weight in satsumas – he was proven right. The Home Secretary would remain in his spot. And fucking Nicholson could roll over and die as far as he was concerned.

“Alle _bloody_ luia!” intoned Jamie as he came into his office with his usual marketable cheerfulness when faced with someone else's miserable – but _oh_ so deserved – demise.

“Amen to that,” Malcolm replied, pulsating waves of exhaustion hammering in his skull already. Thankfully, Sam had restocked his mini fridge with Red Bull, but he knew he'd need restorative sleep – and soon.

“You look fucking ghastly.” Always on point, that Jamie.

“Thanks, I feel like it. Fucking Nicholson.”

“Fucking Baker.”

“Fucking deer.”

“Yeah, fucking deer.”

Pleasantries exchanged, Jamie sat down in front of him. Malcolm was quite certain sleep hadn't been very present on his agenda either, but he'd made sure to send him home the previous night around 2AM. He'd made a quick trip around six that morning for a shower, shave and a change of clothes. The Doctor had rapidly grasped the concept of the dog flap – smart bugger – and yet he'd had the distinct impression of reading reproach in his too human eyes. Complaining all the way at his incapacity at stopping seeing this dog as a person, he spent extra minutes petting him and sharing his ire over the last few days with him. Hell, he was more responsive that half the fucking Cabinet.

“Planning on sleeping tonight, then?”

“Jesus, yes,” Malcolm answered.

“Not going over to Clara's? I know that's where you went on Friday, so don't give me that sleekit grin.”

Was he grinning? Maybe he was. And the fact that Jamie knew he'd gone to her flat on Friday should also bother him – but strangely enough, it didn't.

“Tempting. But I need sleep.”

Jamie looked as though he couldn't believe he'd been given a straight answer.

“So you admit it?”

“Admit what?”

“You and Clara are...”

“Yes,” he cut in quickly, still not keen on finding out how Jamie would word this.

“And... Have you been... I mean, did you do anything this weekend? Other than...”

This was torture. Jamie was visibly fidgeting on his chair and Malcolm couldn't decide whether he wanted him to keep on squirming or force him to speak his mind – cringe worthy definitions be damned.

“Yes, we are capable of doing normal boring stuff together like talking and eating.”

“Blimey.”

“Exactly.”

“Turns out you're not 'too old for that' after all then, eh?”

Malcolm glared and tried very hard not to take offence. The little twat was right, after all.

“Guess so,” he settled on saying, teeth clenched. Jamie could see right through him and grinned. Idiot.

“I won't cough up any details if that's what you're here for,” he warned.

“God, no. I'm not that fucking devious. Or suicidal.”

A raised eyebrow in question.

“Oh, come on, big man. You can hardly stand anyone remotely trying to get her attention. Even me, and that was just for talking on the bloody phone with her. I'm expecting you to fucking deck Reeder the next time his eyes wander lower than the top of her head. You should watch out if you don't want everyone to know about you two.”

That gave him pause – did he want to keep their relationship a secret? Clara had a lot more to lose than him in this situation. His reputation more than preceded him – it predated him. She would be given a lot of flak for something that wasn't her fault in any way. Maybe he should just ask her for her opinion. He wasn't about to announce that he was seeing her on Question Time, but he wasn't in favour of denying it and avoiding her presence either.

When he raised his eyes towards Jamie once more, he realised that he might have ignored him for too long. In any case, the younger Scot was smiling stupidly.

“So you're happy, I take it.”

“Happy? Who's happy? This isn't the fucking Teletubbies. Nobody's fucking 'happy'.”

“Fine. Glad, then. Not unhappy.”

“Not unhappy, yeah. It was nice to have her around the house this weekend,” he admitted, realising his misstep too late.

“Oh, so she went to _your_ place as well?”

_For fuck's sake._

“Yeah,” clearing his throat. “So did you have anything related to work to ask me?”

“Change the subject, smooth.”

“I try.”

“Sarah told me she should have some new info for you on Friday. I told her to come here, if that's okay. I'll see with Sam what's the best time for you, yeah?”

“Sure. Do you know if it's _good_ info or...”

“Don't worry, I know it is. She says she's doing court case preliminaries and needs your instructions or something.”

“So it's going to court, then?” Malcolm asked, not liking the sound of it.

“She has to get ready just in case. She's a barrister – that's what she fucking lives for. Mostly cautionary tactics, from what I understood.”

Malcolm nodded, hoping they would be able to settle this without having to actually set foot in a court of law to testify. He didn't care about the rest. Well, that wasn't entirely true – he clearly wanted answers, but from what he'd gathered, they wouldn't be coming any time soon. The police was too busy figuring out where the pictures were coming from.

His distaste must have been clearly visible on his face, because Jamie was quick to change gears once again.

“You know, there's a simple question you could ask her.”

“Who, Sarah?”

“No, Clara.”

Wouldn't he just give up? Jesus, if the conversation had been a horse, it would have been shot by now.

“What question?” Malcolm eventually groused.

“You said you liked having her around.”

“Right...”

“Then just ask her.”

“Ask her what, for God's sake?”

“Christ, you're hopeless. You'll figure it out. I'm late for something.” Jamie said, standing up quickly.

“Ask her what?” he pressed, but Jamie was already at the door.

_Fuck._

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry it took me so long to post the last chapter of this story. What can I say, I don’t like endings. Hate them so much in fact that the third installment will soon(ish) be started. I can already reveal its name - "Heredity".
> 
> Enjoy, and thanks again for reading. Don't hesitate to leave a comment - they mean the world to me. :)

 

 ****Clara wanted to believe that she was a patient woman.

She wasn't.

Come Thursday evening and she couldn't stay in place. Her flat felt too small and suffocating. She wanted to call Malcolm and ask him stupid things. Things like, _did the dog flap turn out okay? Did you have time to finish setting it up? By the way, how is the Doctor? Does he miss me? Did you remember my advice to scratch him behind his ears when he looks sad? Do you know that he does look sad sometimes?_ But she would be lying if she said that those were the only questions she wanted to ask him. _Did you manage to sleep at all these last few days? Because you looked positively dreadful when I saw you on Tuesday, even if I was only able to glance at you for a second. Did you remember to eat at least? You're still too thin._ The most important question being: _when can I see you? Because I miss you._

Knowing that there was still a good chance he wouldn't be home, she eventually decided to listen to her – impulse? heart? - and exited her flat to walk the small distance to Elephant & Castle station to hail a cab. It was close to midnight and she was tired of doing nothing.

Once faced with his door though, she realised that she hadn't come up with a suitable excuse during the taxi ride. Too late to back down, now. The cabbie was already gone and she could see light behind the curtains, downstairs – Malcolm was home.

_Just knock, Oswald._

She did.

Malcolm seemed less frightfully sleep deprived than on Tuesday. Good. The look he gave her was difficult to read – was he pleased to see her? Surprised?

“Did I wake you?” she asked stupidly, given that he was still in his shirt sleeves.

“No.”

No inflexion. No way to know what he felt.

“Did you take a cab?”

“Yes.”

He still hadn't invited her in. The ridiculousness of the situation hit them both at the same time. Clara tried to suppress her nervous laugh and Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest, leaning over the door jamb.

“Did you miss your dog, perhaps?” he asked with a small smile, offering her an enviable exit.

“Yes,” she rushed in to say. “Terribly so,” she added, her gaze roaming over his features to put her point across.

“That's what I thought,” he replied seriously, although his ears had visibly pinked up. Dead giveaway.

“Can I come in, then?”

“Sure.”

Clara waited until the door was closed to pull him towards her and start kissing him.

 

 

She couldn't move. Well, more like _wouldn't,_ really. The bed was warm, the pillow was soft and the slow exhale she could feel against her neck was reassuring. And why would she move? Clara was entitled to some rest after all. It was... What day was it? The weekend, surely. Either Saturday or Sunday. Otherwise, Malcolm wouldn't be next to her. Otherwise, she wouldn't have knocked on his door the previous night. Otherwise... Wait.

What day was it, again? She was now pretty sure that yesterday had been a Thursday because she'd eaten sushi last night, and she only ate sushis on Thursdays, which meant today was...

Shit.

“What time is it?” she mumbled, alertness coming slower than she would have liked.

Given the answering groan she received, it was either still early or she'd slurred her words so badly that her companion hadn't understood her.

“Check the clock,” came the answer.

The clock. Right. This probably meant that she should open her eyes, then. The both of them. And figure out on which side of the bed it was. Malcolm must have been more aware of his bearings, because it turned out to be situated on her bedside table. Clara half crawled, half dragged herself to the edge of the mattress then blinked. And blinked again, several times, just to make sure.

_Shit._

“Malcolm, it's almost nine!”

She was now mostly awake and kneeling on the bed, frantically looking for clothes to wear while going over Friday morning's schedule in her head. How big of a disaster was it? Did she have anything planned at nine?

“What do you mean, it's almost nine? It can't be, the alarm is supposed to ring every ten minutes from 6 onwards.”

Trust Malcolm to focus on the finer – though useless – details.

“Well, it didn't. Or if it did, we clearly didn't hear it.”

“That's impossible!” he professed, now at her side and looking at the alarm clock for himself. Then at his watch.

“Shit!”

Shit, indeed. At least they were on the same page, now.

The next 10 minutes were a mad dash to Malcolm's car, preceded by impossibly quick pit stops to the bathroom, grumbled curses and various wordless pleas to the unknown deity who would temporarily render Clara's colleagues blind to the fact that she was wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

The conversation in the car was nonexistent. Malcolm had given a powerful soliloquy on the reliability of his alarm clock which hadn't shown any sign of weakness in almost a decade. So why, o why, had it suddenly decided to refuse to work? Clara kept her mouth resolutely shut, given that, as her senses were slowly but surely coming back to her, she dimly came to realise that there was a good chance _she_ was the alarm's clock sign of weakness. She had two alarms at home – one by her bed, and one on the other side of the room. She had a black belt in snoozing and forgetting, and had therefore deemed it safer years ago to rely on this strategy. Clearly, Malcolm didn't need to know this little tidbit about her. No.

“Where do I drop you off?” he asked, as they were approaching Piccadilly Circus.

“I actually had a meeting at Downing Street, this morning. Hopefully, I'll catch the end of it.”

“Oh, yeah. Post Select Committee talks for the Special Needs bill, right? Probably boring. Drop by my office afterwards, I'll give you the important bits. I've got Ballentine's report.”

“Thanks.”

Silence, once more. But at least Clara didn't hear anything else regarding Malcolm's precious alarm clock.

“I hope Sarah's waited for me,” he mumbled as they were parking.

Of course – he would give out the most important information just as they were splitting in different directions.

“Sarah? Does she have something regarding your case?” she asked, not caring if she was too inquisitive – Clara had already proven how invested she was in the matter, and Malcolm knew it.

“It’s about my directives if we go to court.”

It wasn’t hard to see that he wasn’t too thrilled about that prospect – big surprise. She barely restrained herself from offering to be there for him. Just barely. That was a sobering moment. She had to be more careful or else he would start thinking she was smothering him. But then, she could tell that her suggestion wouldn’t have been automatically rejected. The concealed yearning in his eyes spoke volumes. Oh, dear. Something else to watch out for.

“What time should I meet you in your office?” Clara settled on saying, having chosen her words carefully so that he could read in them what he wanted.

“When’s your thing supposed to end?”

She looked at her watch, wincing at how much she’d already missed.

“In about half an hour.”

“Then come after that.”

She smiled, realising that he had also sidestepped the issue and wouldn’t give her a straight answer regarding her presence during his meeting with his barrister. They went their separate way, the hectic beginning of their day forgotten and their minds focused on the present.

Sarah was still there when he finally reached his office – bless her. He must be a valuable client, then. Ten minutes into the conversation, he understood just how valid that assessment was. His mind was still reeling from the numbers she had disclosed. Malcolm wasn’t poor by any stretch of the imagination and led a very comfortable life. He had savings and both his house and car were almost paid off. He had expected to pay his lawyers quite a substantial amount, but as it turned out not only would all his costs be covered, but the punitive damages he would receive for having been framed - by journalists working for quite famous newspapers, no less – would prove stupidly lucrative. This wasn’t just about getting compensations. This was making sure said newspapers would be forced to downsize considerably. And sack a few hacks along the way.

He was still trying to figure out what he would do with all that money when Clara came in, closely followed by Jamie, who had no doubt invited himself. He had a knowing look in his eyes, and Malcolm was quite sure and this didn’t have anything to do with his meeting with Sarah but rather Clara’s creased shirt and less than perfectly applied makeup. As if he somehow knew _how_ it had come to be. Let’s be honest, he had probably guessed. This was Jamie, after all, who could smell an extra-marital affair 10 miles away, let alone a late night that had turned into a late morning.

They had just sat down – Malcolm still blissfully lost on what he was supposed to tell Clara…something about an Education thing? - when another person showed up.

Nicholson. Who else could it be at a time like this?

The tosser brought a chair along and placed it right in front of him, bang on facing the middle of his desk so that when he looked up, Malcolm could do nothing but stare at him. Jamie had rolled his eyes and started making rude gestures behind his back, while Clara had visibly retreated.

“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure yet… Clara Oswald, correct? The new wonder over at DfES?”

Fake smile firmly planted, she managed not to shudder when he cupped her hand and limply shook it.

“And you are?” Bless her, she knew perfectly well who he was – thanks to his numerous rants on the subject - but hadn’t been properly introduced, yet.

Nicholson flustered, the concept of not being recognised and idolised quite foreign to him.

“Julius Nicholson, you might have heard my name mentioned in passing,” he replied, a vain and insipid laugh coming out of him in small bursts.

The poor sod received Clara’s inimitable Gallic shrug. A shrug so potent that it probably even smelled of French cheese if you were close enough. A shrug that could therefore not be ignored.

A miracle then happened – Nicholson had nothing to say. Absolutely fucking nothing. Struck dumb.

“So, Malcolm, the Select Committee? What did Claire Ballentine have to say on the subject?”

As it were, Malcolm had to say that he was also struck dumb. And shit out of luck – Baldymort was recovering faster than him and would soon find something annoying to say. Better be quicker about it.

“The bill will be good to go, given a couple of adjustments that we are working on directly with her. Your Minister should know everything by this afternoon.”

Blatant lie, there. Oh well... Just one more phone call to add to his already over-inflated list. He knew Clara would want to start working on said adjustments right away, but he had to make sure the bill would follow the line they had agreed on with the PM first.

“What do you think about the Special Needs bill, by the way, Clara? Who best to ask than a former teacher like yourself?” voiced out Nicholson, satisfaction at his own wording written on his face.

“I’m fine with it,” she replied, non plussed, not giving him an inch.

Would the man try for a third time? Or was he fed up with being rejected yet? Jesus.

Looking done for the count, Julius turned towards him, knowing from experience that it was no use trying to have a conversation with Jamie – he neither had the stomach nor the stamina for it.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Malcolm,” – oh, how he hated it when he called him by his first name – “but you have an Aston Martin, right? A DB9? Fantastic car, I know. I just got a Vanquish S myself. Smaller, yes. But newer. And faster.” A pointed look towards Clara.

What, he couldn’t impress her with his _brain_ , so he was going to impress her with how fast his bloody car was? That was low, even for a despicable twat like him. Buying the next model! How old was he, twelve? Were they going to compare the size of their dicks next? Right there on his desk? Because…

“Bigger is better,” Clara interjected primly.

Malcolm felt his face heat up as the same time as Jamie let out an unmistakable guffaw.

“Why buy smaller when you can have bigger – and better - at a less expensive price? The Vanquish S is just silly.”

“My dear Ms. Oswald” – good start, he couldn’t wait to hear the rest of that sentence – “you should probably leave cars to connoisseurs. That’s French, by the way, is it not?”

“No, it’s not. It's old French. We’ve been saying 'connaisseur' for two centuries in France, you haven’t caught up yet.” A beat. “But going back to the Vanquish S it _is_ silly. Why pay 60,000 extra quid for a Vanquish S rather than go for a DB9?”

“This is where us 'connaisseurs', as you say, know best. You see, in sports car, the engine is what really matters... And the Vanquish S...”

“... has the exact same engine as the DB9, a 6 litre V12.”

He had really pissed her off, now. And dear Lord, what a spectacle it was. What a delight to his and Jamie's eyes.

“And yes, I know what you are going to say”, she quickly added, “'But, clueless girl, it develops 520 break horse-power, when the DB9 only develops 460' To which I would reply, 'Good for you, I guess 40 extra horse-power is really the thing I was lacking while crawling my way to work on a Monday morning on the M1.”

Scratch his previous thought – this was a turn on, that's what it was. And he'd probably kiss her until they both forgot how to breathe if they were alone.

Instead of backing down and finally admitting defeat – where the _fuck_ had she gotten to know so much about cars anyway? - Nicholson threw one last, pitiful punch.

“It's red.”

Clara's eyes flashed in victory as she stood up.

“Well, it's alright, then. It will match the colour on your face when you realise that you made the right choice to buy a more expensive car with two seats missing and a stupid flappy paddle gearbox that makes you look like an amateur. And that's French as well, by the way.”

And then, with a cursory nod and an impish smile in his direction, she left.

The following minute of complete silence was painful. Painful in the sense that Malcolm had the hard task of restraining himself from jumping over his desk, running over to Clara and spin her around madly in a circle. Then presumably find the first empty room/closet to let her know in great lengths and quite thoroughly just how much he adored her right now.

Instead, he gritted his teeth and tried to imprint upon his face a mask of surprise and compassion at the dejected reaction Nicholson was clearly failing at hiding. An undertaking made that much harder by the tears of repressed laughter appearing at the corner of Jamie's eyes.

They quickly wrapped up their meeting - a meeting that was never supposed to happen in the first place – Malcolm voicing his stupor at Clara's outburst while Julius tried to vainly reclaim his dignity by saying that it was 'quite alright' and that he had probably 'insulted the poor girl' in some unknown way. It was probably unwise to point out to him that his very _existence_ was what had insulted her. Malcolm wasn't known to kick people when they were already down, after all. Well, most of the time.

“Guess I'll see your new acquisition in the car park, then Julius. Oh no, wait – they probably haven't given you a spot. The whole not having a _proper_ role here, and such. Pity.”

Once Jamie was forcefully pushed out the door with a muttered 'we'll talk about this _fucking_ later', Malcolm sat back and started thinking. He now had a very clear idea of what he wanted to do with part of his soon-to-be acquired money.

 

 

It took a little over a month to get everything ready. The first item on his agenda was to take Clara to the River Café. They both laughed at how long it had been since they said they'd eat there, but Malcolm wasn't disappointed. In fact, when he saw that she was wearing _that_ dress, the red dress that had turned his head several months ago during the Treasury party, he realised just how lucky he was. How lucky he was to have that beautiful woman in his life. To still have his job. To have friends who looked out for him like Jamie and Sarah.

After dinner – just as pleasant and as overpriced as he had expected – he took Clara home. This wasn't a surprise, since she had spent most of her weekends at his place during the past month. And a few extra week nights along the way. More than a few, really. Thankfully, neither had used the poor excuse that she was missing her dog again. They had simply wordlessly agreed that their off time, as limited as it was, was better spent in each other's company.

The real surprise came when instead of opening the front door and lead her inside, he took her hand and walked with her a small distance.

“What is it?” she asked, her walk slow and her high heels clearly begging to be taken off already.

“Come and see,” he replied, and finally stopped.

“See what?”

Malcolm pointed.

“That's a car,” she uttered, non-plussed.

“I know you can do better than that. What kind of car?” he pressed, a small smile on his lips he tried to hide.

Clara knocked her head to the side and studied the vehicle, her curiosity piqued.

“A Cooper S. With a John Cooper Works GP kit, I think.”

“And?”

“And one of your neighbours clearly has both money and taste. It's supposed to be a very fun car to drive. What's this all about, Malcolm?”

“And you're forgetting the most important part – it's yours.”

“It's what?”

“Yours, I bought it. It's a gift, I mean. For you.”

He was flustering. Why was he flustering? Hadn't he rehearsed that part?

Clara stopped looking at the car and turned towards him. She had forgotten all about her painful feet. About the cold February air. And her wish to go to bed.

“Come again, you did _what_?”

His shoulders drooped and his smile faded. It was too much, wasn't it? He had gone too far. She was angry. Well, he thought she was, he couldn't quite tell despite the artificially illuminated street.

“Well, you needed a new car, didn't you?” he started, “And I thought, since I got some money from the libel suit, and you've been so...” he stopped.

“So what?”

He couldn't say it without sounding condescending.

“So what, Malcolm?” she pressed, her brow knit.

“So _brilliant_ and...and _nice_ and...” but his ineptitude at finding the right words was thankfully cut short by her small hand coming to rest over his mouth.

“Shut up, I wasn't,” she admonished with a tiny smile, her cheeks tinted red.

He nodded to press his point since she hadn't freed his mouth and she let out a chuckle.

“So because I was _brilliant_ and _nice_ and I don't know what else when I've only behaved like a human being, you decided to buy me a car.”

Another nod.

“Well, a human being who's into you, I'll grant you that,” she added, removing her hand and stroking his cheek before lowering her arm.

Still unsure where they stood, Malcolm looked into her eyes for guidance.

“Tell me again,” she said, turning back towards the car and leaning over his chest for warmth.

“What?” he asked, frowning.

“Just how _brilliant_ I am, exactly,” she replied, forcing his arms to encircle her waist.

He breathed a relieved laugh against her hair and smiled.

“I forgot,” he answered in jest.

“Maybe I should remind you,” Clara offered, her behind starting to work devilishly against his groin.

“Maybe,” he agreed, biting back a groan.

She turned quickly towards him once more, his hands tightly held in hers.

“Is it really a Works GP model?” she queried, her eyes shining with barely suppressed glee.

“It is.”

“218 break horse-power, 0 to 60 in 6.5 seconds, top speed 149mph.”

“ _Jesus_ , you're scary when you do that.”

“You weren't complaining before,” she pointed out smartly, one eyebrow raised.

“Certainly not. And I'm still not complaining now. How come you know that much about cars, anyway?” he asked, curious.

“Simple, really,” she replied, shrugging. “I'm good with remembering numbers. And my insomnia only got cured by Dave.”

“Dave? Who's Dave?” he inquired, the name sounding like an insult in his mouth.

Clara laughed good heartedly at his jealous streak.

“The channel, you idiot. I became addicted to reruns of _Top Gear_.”

Malcolm shook his head in dismay.

“It's entertaining!” she defended herself. “And the young one is cute,” she added, just to push his buttons.

“The _short_ one _,_ you mean?”

She nodded, surprised once more at how well she could read him, now. That man who used to be such a mystery to her.

Clara let go of his hands and started circling the car. She resisted touching it then realised how silly she was – the car was hers after all.

“You're completely mad, you know that? You really shouldn't have.”

At the uncertainty on his face, she quickly reassured him - “But I love it, it's beautiful. I can't wait to drive it.”

Malcolm walked around the Mini with her.

“The wheel is on the right side, I thought it would be easier to drive around here. But if you'd rather have it on the left side, they said you could easily exchange it.”

Clara shook her head.

“I'm not planing on driving anywhere but around here, it's perfect like that.”

Malcolm smiled, the small part of him that had been anxious at the life she had left behind in France relieved.

“So, where are we going?” she asked seriously, crossing her arms over her chest.

He produced two sets of keys from his pockets, throwing the car keys to her. She caught them deftly and inquired silently about the other set.

“Jamie gave me the keys to the cabin. Good first test drive, I think. I mean, if you feel like going back there, of course.”

“I'd love to go back,” she said, her voice warm.

“But tomorrow, yeah? I just want a bed with you in it tonight, and the one in the cabin is just too far away.”

“Yes, m'am,” he agreed quickly.

As they were walking the small distance back to his door, Malcolm's arm draped over her shoulders, he added one last thing, smirk firmly in place.

“By the way, you didn't notice the most important thing about the car.”

“What is it?” Clara asked, playing his game.

“It's fucking _red_.”

 

 

 


End file.
